


Inferno

by thejigsawtimess



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Dante - Freeform, Gore, Hand Jobs, Hell, Humor, M/M, Quest, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejigsawtimess/pseuds/thejigsawtimess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, right? Dean is going to save his brother. Not the tall, gangly one who likes salads, the other one. Adam, who's been locked in the Cage for God knows how long. He needs Castiel to guide him through, because the Angel has definitely been there, done that, and bought at least two t-shirts. So it's just the two of them, alone, in the depths of Hades for however long it takes. Dean knows they could both die. But then, what's life when you leave your own flesh and blood to rot in Hell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude (The Bela Revelation)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there.
> 
> This fic is inspired by Dante's Inferno, though it is a loose interpretation. There are many elements you will recognise from Dante's work I'm sure, but I have given things a twist. 
> 
> I have set the story as an alternate from canon leading on from around early season six, where Sam has his soul back, Eve is not in the picture, and Cas has not become a massive douche and teamed up with Crowley. (Sorry for Spoilers). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story, things will end up getting pretty explicit I would think, so watch out for graphic depictions of horror, gore, violence, sex and swearing. I just like to tell a good story ;) 
> 
> Note: Also watch out for expansions of Bela Talbot's implied past traumas. I have theorised what they are and these things are uncovered. This could be a trigger for some people.
> 
> xxx

It’s been three days of interviews, libraries until closing time, big, dusty books that damn near crumble in his hands and hours of staring at a glaring, stubborn laptop screen before Sam finds the full extent of what he’s looking for.

 

He actually shouts “frickin finally!”, standing up from his chair so fast it falls to the ground. In his moment of triumph, he has managed to forget, however, that he is in the middle of a public library. He gets a lot of looks – some dirty for disobeying the ‘silence’ rule, and some really quite amused, so he makes a few hand gestures of apology, and scarpers.

 

He hurries home as quickly as the Impala’s positively gleaming wheels (Dean’s been pretty bored lately) will carry him. He yells a vague greeting to Bobby, who is bent over the hood of a car in the enormous scrapyard, then hurries through the front door of the house to find Dean.

 

Dean is, surprisingly, at the kitchen table, surrounded by books. Of course, there are two half-drunk bottles of beer beside him to help him in his task.

 

Sam slams his laptop down on the table, gleaming with triumph at Dean, who starts at the sudden noise.

 

“I got it.” Sam declares proudly, grinning because he can’t help himself. “I know where the damn thing went.”

 

Dean leans back in his chair and lets out a groan of relief. “Thank _God._ I thought we’d never trace the damn thing. Shoot!”

 

Sam sits down next to Dean and opens his laptop, the page he last looked at still on screen. He clicks the first tab, an article containing excerpts from a very old looking document, one that has clearly been scanned in. Dean picks up his beer and leans closer, squinting at the near-illegible handwriting.

 

“It says here that Pandora’s Box – or ‘The Pithos of Pandora’ as it’s called here – was taken to be destroyed… y’know, after the whole opening and creating a world of despair thing.” Sam reads, running his finger along the words on the screen. Dean chuckles and plays with the label on his bottle. “Apparently the Gods who ‘bestowed the jar unto Pandora’-”

 

“Woah, woah, hold up. The _jar?_ ” Dean interrupts, holding up a hand to pause Sam in his tracks. “C’mon, everyone knows it’s a box. It’s definitely a box!”

 

“Uh, actually no. It was a jar. Or to use the correct terminology, a ‘pithos’.” Sam says, and Dean looks suspiciously at him, but huffs, relenting. “Did you actually find anything of value when you were ‘researching’?” Sam asks amusedly, air quotes and all.

 

“Alright, alright, maybe I got… a little distracted. Just tell me your big find already.”

 

Sam shakes his head, grinning, and turns back to the screen. He’s too damn proud of himself to be annoyed with Dean for slacking. “Okay, so the Gods who gave it to her apparently planned the whole thing, so they didn’t punish her, but they did take the box away, apparently to destroy it.”

 

“Except we know that it’s still alive and kickin’.” Dean grumbles, taking a swig of beer. “Hold up, they planned the whole thing? Jeez, does every God want the world to end all bloody and filled with ‘despair’?”

 

Sam shrugged. “Who knows what they were thinking. Gotta feel for Pandora though, huh.”

 

Dean huffs his agreement, taking another sip. “And now fuckin’ Crowley has it. Fantastic. Man, I just didn’t think he’d be up to anything this…” Dean pauses, eyes flicking to Sam. “It’s stupid if I say I didn’t think he’d try anything this bad, isn’t it?”

 

“A little.” Sam replies, smiling. “He is the King of Hell.”

 

“Yeah, I know. I just… I dunno, I thought we’d just rip through a few demons, one of ‘em would eventually tell us where the guy was, he’d probably drop in to say ‘quit bloody well spying on me you plaid-clad gigantors’ and… yeah. We’d have done our duty.”

 

When Dean looks up at Sam, there’s a look of mild horror and confusion in his eyes.

 

“What?” Dean asks, sitting up a little straighter.

 

“Wh-what the Hell was that?” Sam asks, apparently dumbstruck.

 

“What was what?!”

 

“Dean, was that supposed to be _Crowley_?”

 

Dean rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Shut the Hell up. I’d like to hear your British accent, asshole.” Sam laughs, and Dean whacks him in the arm. “C’mon, out with it, bitch.”

 

Sam laughs harder, turning reluctantly back to the screen. “Alright, alright, so the Gods took the box- I mean _pithos_ – and Zeus gave it to the person he felt would be most responsible.”

 

“And who was that?” Dean asks..

 

“Uh, that was Plutus. Son of Demeter, and God of wealth.” Sam replies, clicking a different tab and reading a few lines before turning to Dean. “According to the Wikipedia page about him, he was blind so he could give out riches without bias.”

 

“Ah, so lemme guess, we’ve got your classic ‘demon tricks a blind guy’ routine.” Dean says.

 

“Actually, it’s a little worse. The person who tricked Plutus into handing over the box for his ‘collection’ was human.” Sam says, and Dean grimaces.

 

“I hate it when it’s just people. Crummy, crappy mankind.”

 

“I know,” Sam sighs, “but the good news is, Plutus left a curse on the box, check it out.”

 

Sam points to the screen, indicating a short passage of writing, encircled in a swirl of scripture on an aging parchment. Dean grips his bottle and begins to read.  

_‘the pithos of Anesidora must remain,_

_eternally in the hands of he who has gain,_

_whenst life escapes him, down pithos shall fall_

_to he whose blood shares the sweet call_.’

 

“…So, that’s good news right?” Sam asks, a cheery grin on his face once more. Dean looks blankly back at him.

 

“Dude, I don’t understand a word of what I just read.”

 

Sam sighs exasperatedly. “Okay. Well ‘Anesidora’ is just another name for Pandora. The curse is saying that the box has to stay in the hands of the person who gained it, right?” Dean doesn’t answer, so Sam decides to dial up the patronisation. “Following me?”

 

Dean glares at Sam. “Yeah, ok but what about the next bit?”

 

“Ok, so ‘whenst life escapes him’ obviously means ‘when he dies’ right?” Sam asks rhetorically.

 

“Yeah… obviously.” Dean replies, shifting uncomfortably.

 

“So, it’s saying: When the person who received this thing died, it will ‘fall’ to the next guy who’s ‘blood shares the sweet call’.” Sam reiterates, and shrugs, like its simple.

 

“Yeah, I still don’t get it. Blood doesn’t call people, I mean what?”

 

Sam closes his eyes and tries to be patient. “No- look it’s just saying that after the first guy who got it dies, it goes to the next person in his bloodline. As in, the box is a family heirloom of whoever got it in the first place. It must’ve been passed down over generations in a family.”

 

“Ohhh.” Dean nods, taking a sip of beer as the information sinks in. “Hold up, but we still don’t know whose bloodline it is!”

 

Sam grins again, clicking another tab he has open. “Actually…. We do.”

 

Dean leans in closer to the screen. “Edward Kelley… Renaissance Occult Master… Hold up, I’ve heard of this guy, yeah- he and that other dude talked to Angels in Enochian before anyone had even heard of the language, right?”

 

Sam nods enthusiastically, and reads the next part aloud. “…a self-declared spirit medium and alchemist, Edward Kelley became a wealthy, flamboyant figure of supernatural history- perhaps most famous for his opulent and impressive collection of magical items, some of which he sold and were often found to be counterfeits.” Sam turns back to Dean, smiling widely. “Dean, do you see? He was arrested like five times for forgery and counterfeiting mystical relics! He was pilloried and his ears were cut off for his crimes!”

 

“Nice.” Dean pauses. “Okay, but even if this guy had the ‘pithos’ that leaves us nowhere. I’ve never heard of anyone called Kelley.”

 

“Forget that for a minute.” Sam says impatiently, batting Dean’s argument out of the air with his hand. “Doesn’t this guy _remind_ you of anyone? Isn’t there anyone who you can think of who you’d like to slice the ears off of for dealing in the ‘supernatural collectors’ business not-altogether-honestly?”

 

Dean ponders for a moment and then chuckles. “Well, yeah I guess it sounds a lot like-” Dean shrugs off whatever he was about to say, still obviously confused, “but it doesn’t matter cause this guy’s name is Kelley!” Dean cries, pointing at the name on screen.

 

“Dean, _look._ ” Sam insists, swatting Dean’s hand away and scrolling down the page a little. “See there? Under ‘Edward Kelley: Also known as…’”

 

“Holy crap.” Dean breathes, and his now empty beer bottle slips from his hand, landing on the floor with a thunk. “Edward Talbot. Bela. It was Bela’s bloodline.”

 

* * *

 

 

“That _bitch_!” Dean cries as soon as he’s gotten over the initial shock of the information. He stands up from his chair, kicking the fallen beer bottle across the floor so that it smashes into splinters against the cupboard door. “She’s still messing with us! Even when she’s rotting in hell!”

 

“Dean.”

 

“I mean God-fucking-dammit this girl is good.” Dean laughs humourlessly. “You have to hand it to her, this is some expert revenge shit right here-”

 

“Dean.”

 

“I mean it’s not like we don’t know what she immediately did with the damn thing as soon as she inherited it; some folks might’ve gotten a little sentimental about a family heirloom that important but- oh wait! We’re forgetting that this is the girl who made a _deal with a demon_ to fucking _murder her parents_ when she was _fourteen years old_!”

 

“ _Dean._ ”

 

Dean pauses, gripping the back of the chair he’d been sitting on. “Obviously she sold it right? She found a way to get rid of the ‘family heirloom only’ curse and she sold it for megabucks. That’s all she ever cared about.” Dean chews his lip and eventually drags his eyes over to meet Sam’s. “Am I right?”

 

“Dean, I think you need to hear this.” Sam says, and his voice is sombre. He even looks a little guilty. Dean furrows his brow, but seeing Sam’s expression drains the anger out of him. He sits down again. “I- I thought I might not have to tell you this part, but you’re so angry…”

 

“What is it? C’mon Sammy don’t hold out.” Dean pauses, leaning forwards slightly, trying to catch Sam’s eye. “I need all the info, you know that.”

 

Sam sighs, looking up at Dean. There’s pain in his eyes. “Alright, but Dean… just- just don’t get upset, okay? We didn’t know.”

 

Sam clicks on the final tab open in his browser. It’s a video, waiting to be played; clearly one that Sam has filmed himself. Dean frowns in confusion, but flashes Sam a look to show that he’s ready to see.

 

Sam takes a deep breath and presses play. They watch as a sunny young blonde woman with a rounded face and a gap in her front teeth looks apprehensively at the camera. She smoothes the wrinkles out of her white shirt and lifts a coffee to her lips. She is sitting at an outdoor table in a café, probably opposite Sam, Dean reasons.

 

“Okay, I think it’s all set up, sorry Hannah, whenever you’re ready.” It’s Sam’s voice alright, floating into the microphone from off-screen. Hannah smiles nervously and nods at him.

 

“So, I just say what I told you?” She asks in a light, breathy, very obviously English voice. Sam unexpectedly hits pause, making Dean look up.

 

“Her accent, you see, there’s just fluidity to it, if you wanna sound British Dean, then you’ve gotta-”

 

“Shut the Hell up, Sam.” Dean interrupts, noting the wry grin on his brother’s face and making a mental note to punch it off later. “Play the damn thing.”

 

Sam chuckles, then stops abruptly, and sighs. He aims a concerned glance at Dean, and presses play.

 

 “Why don’t you say who you are and what you’re here to say first.” The off-screen-Sam replies, and she nods, looking directly into the lens, into Dean’s eyes- it’s creepy.

 

 “Um, hi I’m Hannah May, and I grew up with Bela Talbot.” Hannah states, her eyes flicking to Sam’s behind the camera for approval. She seems to get it, because even while Dean is reeling from this statement, she continues talking. “We were next-door neighbours. Our families were both from wealthy backgrounds so we lived in big houses, up on the fancy side of town. Our gardens connected by a hidden gate in the fence, so we’d play together every day. She was my best friend up until we were, I don’t know, around fifteen? Maybe before actually…”

 

Hannah seems to drift off here, and Dean tilts his head in wonder at her glazed eyes, her faraway expression, wondering what she’s remembering.

 

“Hannah?” The off-screen-Sam asks, and it jolts her back to the present day.

 

“Um, yeah, sorry. Well, I guess I was too young to understand it properly at the time but… gosh it’s so awful, thinking back now. Especially now that she’s…” Hannah breaks off, closing her eyes, her lip quivering in sadness. “Well, everyone thought it was such a huge tragedy when Mr and Mrs Talbot died in that accident, but personally… I hope you don’t think badly of me for this Detective, but I was round Bela’s house all the time, and they were awful, awful people. I wasn’t upset at all when I heard what happened. Oh gosh, it makes me sound horrible, but honestly if you’d _seen_ how they treated Bela…”

 

Hannah puts her hand to her mouth, looking away. She looks close to tears.

 

“How did they treat her Hannah?”

 

Hannah takes a gulp of air, and puts her hands flat on the table in front of her, gathering herself. “Well her Mom was just a drunk, plain and simple. She was on the gin all day long. I swear to God, there was never a moment she didn’t have a glass in her hand. But the Dad… _God._ He was crazy. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was clinically insane. He believed all of this weird supernatural shit- I mean stuff. Sorry Detective. And he was violent. He’d throw Bela about y’know, she’d meet me in the garden at night, sobbing and covered in bruises. But worst of all… he was- _abusive._ Do you know what I mean?”

 

“I- I think so.”

 

“He’d y’know, _visit her_ at night and stuff. She used to tell me about it, it was so horrifying. I don’t think I could ever repeat it.” Hannah looks miserable now, and there are tears leaking from her eyes. “Her Mom would just turn a blind eye, pretend it wasn’t happening. Hell, maybe she was too drunk to notice.”

 

“Is that everything Hannah?” Off-screen-Sam asks her gently.

 

“Yeah, I guess.” Hannah near-whispers. “I just… I feel so guilty y’know? I was her best friend and I did nothing. I knew it was happening, I could’ve… I could have-”

 

“Hannah, listen to me.” Her head snaps up to off-screen-Sam at the sound of his authoritative tone. “There’s nothing you could have done. Not a thing. The Talbots were clearly monstrous, but you were just a kid. So was Bela, and there’s no way to undo what’s been done now. Don’t blame yourself for their horrific actions.”

 

Hannah nods, smiling a little at off-screen-Sam through her tears. “Okay. Thank you Detective.”

 

The video cuts out, and Dean is staring at a black box on a screen. His mind is in knots; his blood feels like it’s about to burst out of his skin. The _guilt_ coursing through him, there’s so much, and it’s so painful. He screws his eyes shut and fists his hands into his hair. It’s like knives, stabbing him through the chest, the stomach, the legs, everywhere. Knives of confusion, of regret, of pure, utter helplessness. He gets up from his chair, stumbling towards the door.

 

“Dean?” Sam calls after him, alarmed at his reaction. “Wh- where are you going? Don’t you wanna know what Bela did with the box?”

 

Dean ignores him, marching straight out of the house, across the scrapyard to his car, kicking up clouds of dirt as he streamlines to the Impala. Sam leaps from his chair as soon as he realises Dean’s intentions to drive away. He gets to the porch just in time to see the Impala spraying gravel as it speeds into the distance.

 

“Dean!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Balls.” Bobby hisses through his teeth, removing his cap and rubbing his forehead.

 

He’s been reading and watching Sam’s research for the past half hour, checking the facts with some of his own contacts just to be sure he’s got it right. “Yep, this blows alright. And Dean knows?”

 

“Uh huh.” Sam replies, breathing out heavily.

 

Sam wishes he didn’t have to tell Dean that stuff about Bela in a way, though he knows it was the right thing to do. He's glad he stumbled across the information too - it's not like he meant to. He was just looking for leads as to where Bela might have hidden the box, looking for anyone that knew her really, and he found Hannah. He’s glad Bobby’s around. Between the two of them they’ll figure out how to manage Dean’s freak out. Bobby looks round, meeting his eyes. He looks concerned – that’s probably not a good sign.

 

“You idgit.” Bobby sighs, and Sam widens his eyes. “What the hell’d you tell him for?”

 

“What? Bobby, he needed to know. And besides, I was just telling him what I discovered-”

 

“Sam, you know as well as I do that Dean Winchester is a damn fragile flower, no matter how he tries to hide it. That boy’s as sensitive to this crap as they come – it’s part of what makes him such a good hunter.” Sam sighs heavily, pushing his chair back and wandering over to the fridge. He hopes Dean didn’t drink all the beer. “Even if nobody knows that but us,” Bobby, continues, “it’s our job to keep stuff like _this_ ,” Bobby gestures at the screen of Sam’s computer, “away from him. Stuff that he’s only gonna blame himself for.”

 

Sam stares at the empty fridge shelves, the frustration rolling over him in waves. He slams the door shut, his shoulders slumping as Bobby’s words sink in. “Fine. Yeah, maybe he was better off not knowing- but, ugh, it’s not like I’m not cut up about it too, yknow?! Bela frickin’  _shot_ me. And I forgive her for all of it now, I’m not throwing a tantrum just cause I know she’s-”

 

“Sam,” Bobby interrupts, calmly. “You know Dean takes things ten times harder anyone. Especially stuff involving Hell.” Bobby leans towards Sam, his voice growing softer. “He knows what it’s like Sam, knows the horror of it. And living with the idea that he sent another innocent person to suffer? Must be killin’ him!”

 

Sam nods, slowly. Yeah, he gets it. God, he can’t imagine that kind of guilt. He leans against one of Bobby’s creaking counters. “Jeez, where the hell did he go, Bobby?”

 

“C’mon Sam, if you were Dean and you couldn’t deal with something- where would you go?” Bobby asks, raising his eyebrows.

 

As the light of realisation dawns in Sam Winchester’s eyes, the phone trills through the silence, causing both men’s heads to snap around. Bobby picks it up – it’s his house after all.

 

“Yeah?” Bobby says into the receiver in lieu of a greeting.

 

Sam watches, entranced, as Bobby’s exhausted eyes narrow, then widen, then roll in response to whatever he’s hearing.

 

“O’ Course he did. Yeah I’ll send someone to collect him.” He pauses, letting the other person speak. “No ma’am it won’t happen again. Yeah, I’m uh, real sorry about your... bra.”

 

When Bobby hangs up the phone, Sam’s face is the epitome of confusion and fear.

 

“Dean got in a bar fight. He also managed to grope a bartender… she’s okay but she’s asking for a full refund for the bra.” Bobby looks seriously disturbed at the mention of women’s undergarments.

 

“…What the hell happened to it? Why does it need replacing?!” Sam asks, his voice squeaky. Bobby just shrugs, looking as though he’d much rather be discussing something – anything – else. “Well, I guess I got somewhere to be, huh?”

 

“He’s down at Reese’s, just off the main highway.”

 

“Yeah, I know the place.” Sam wanders to the door, grabbing his jacket off the side. “I'll call you if I need back up.”

 

He’s halfway out the door when he turns to Bobby and holds out his hand. Bobby rolls his eyes and digs in his pocket, understanding at once. He pulls out his keys and hurls them at Sam, who catches them one-handed and smiles sheepishly. Well, Sam thinks to himself as he jogs outside, it’s Dean’s fault he has to borrow Bobby’s truck. He’s the one that hissy-fitted it off in their shared car.

 

* * *

 

 

“-aan’ anovver thin’. You an’ yer cheap, lousy, uh…. _CHEAP_ li’l bimbo can-”

 

Sam claps a hand over Dean’s mouth just in time. He smiles awkwardly at the braless blonde bartender glaring at Dean from behind the bar, flanked by a much burlier, male barkeep in a tight black tee. He also does not look too pleased with the older Winchester as of right now.

 

“Dean,” Sam says out of the corner of his mouth as his brother struggles in his grip, “I’m begging you – do not finish that sentence.”

 

Together, with a lot of squirming and biting (on Dean’s part), they begin to shuffle towards the door. Just as Sam thinks they might actually make it out of this silently staring bar alive however, Dean manages to rip Sam’s hand away.

 

“ _EAT ME!”_ He yells into the tense, hideously quiet atmosphere.

 

The bar is by no means empty – there are plenty of customers littered around watching the crazy drunkard being hauled off by his younger brother. As soon as Dean’s aggressive words slice through the air however, all heads swivel to the two bartenders, a hundred breaths are drawn in sharply, waiting for the imminent explosion in response.

They are not disappointed. The blonde woman inclines her head from the man to Dean, and like an instructed, well-trained bull-terrier, the man leaps over the bar and strides over to Dean, grabbing him by the arm and shoving.

 

In a different circumstance, what with all the fighting he and Sam do regularly, Dean probably would have been able to fight this guy off. However, he is blind drunk, swaying on his feet and, let’s face it, probably seeing two huge burly guys tackling him instead of one. It’s mere moments before he’s in a vice grip, and being hurled out of the door.

 

* * *

 

 

Once they’re back in the Impala, Dean seems to have sobered a little, but not as much as Sam would have liked. He’d had the foresight to stop at a gas station on the way to getting his stupid drunk of a brother and picked up a coffee at least. Dean grips it tightly, eyes squinting because it’s damn well still light outside.

 

“Can’t beliv you Sammy.” Dean says bitterly into his paper cup. Sam’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. So Dean blames him for the whole thing? Well, maybe that’s better than blaming himself. “Apologisin’ to those… those _people._ They wouldn’ serve me, cin you beliv’ that? ME?! Am I druk?! N-no.”

 

Sam wants to laugh; it’s a funny image despite everything. His brother, so determined to prove he’s not wasted, even as he slurs every other word. He looks over at Dean briefly, still chuckling softly, and it’s only then – idiot, he thinks – that he realises his big brother has tears streaming down his face.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not until late the next morning that Sam sees Dean emerge from his room at Bobby’s after they return. Dean had gone straight upstairs yesterday, wiping his face furiously with his sleeve and ignoring Bobby’s calls of “you okay, y’idgit?”

 

He trudges down the stairs the next morning, his face puffy, and not just from the bruises and impressive black eye he earned himself at the bar.

 

Sam decides to act with caution. His brother is clearly a wound time bomb, fragile just like Bobby said.

 

“Hey.” Sam says, sitting at the table with his coffee and paper, just like any other morning.

 

Dean sends a foul glare his way, and goes straight to the fridge. That’ll do him good, Sam thinks, a plate of breakfast to soak up the leftover alcohol. Instead, to Sam’s surprise and horror, Dean pulls out a beer and snaps the cap off with his fingers alone. When had Bobby even found time to stock up? Sam guesses it must have been earlier this morning, after he’d driven Bobby to pick up his truck from where Sam had left it at the bar. What excellent timing this all is, Sam thinks.

 

Sam doesn’t know what to do; he’s in a state of dilemma. On the one hand, he wants to approach Dean gingerly this morning, but on the other, the answer to Dean’s troubles is certainly not at the bottom of that bottle.

 

Dean saunters over to the table, staring Sammy in the eye, daring him to object. He sits down opposite his brother and takes a long swig. Sam tries to focus on his paper.

 

Dean lets out a soft belch, and Sam’s knuckles whiten. How can he just sit there, at ten in the morning, beer in hand, _staring?_ Sam thinks.

 

“You got somethin’ to say Sammy?”

 

Sam just presses his lips together, placing the paper down and folding his arms to show Dean he’s far from impressed by his actions. Dean takes another swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving Sam’s.

 

“Dean, this isn’t going to help.” Sam says at last, the logical side of himself winning over the urge to pettily argue with his brother.

 

“Well Sam,” Dean says, pausing to drink some more, “maybe I don’t want help.”

 

“What does that mean?!” Sam asks, incredulous. “Look, Dean, I know it’s awful to find out about Bela-”

 

“Shut up.” Dean snaps, slamming his bottle down on the table. He glares at Sam, daring him to say a word more. “You don’t know shit. _I_ was the one Sam. It was me who told Bela to go fuck herself when she begged me for help. I’m almost damn sure you wouldn’t’ve done the same. So just don’t even try it.”

 

“Dean, you didn’t know… And you were on your way to Hell yourself! It wasn’t like you were in the best position to-”

 

“I should’ve done my _job_!” Dean yells, slamming a hand down on the table, his teeth gritted, tears in his eyes. “I’m supposed to SAVE people. Innocent people Sam!”

 

Sam says nothing, deciding words can’t soothe his brother right now.

 

“Everything about this damn world is fucking unfair.” Dean spits out, his words laced with venom. “I went to Hell, I killed _thousands_ of people down in that pit- and it’s decided that _I_ deserve to get out?! Bullshit!”

 

“That’s different. The Angels had a plan for you-”

 

“Yeah, yeah I’m the goddamned ‘righteous man’ right? Well that’s a pile of crap.” Dean sits back in his chair, hatred in his eyes. Sam looks away, hating to see his brother so filled with self-loathing. “Bela was no saint, but she damn sure doesn’t deserve to be rotting in Hell. I say if Cas and the other winged fuckers made an exception for me, there’s no reason she can’t be sprung too.”

 

Sam waits for a minute or so before speaking, knowing that Dean needs a moment to calm down, to rationalise his thoughts. Dean’s mind is undoubtedly racing at a hundred miles an hour right now, making foolhardy decisions and self-sacrifices to try and help his guilty conscience.

 

“Dean,” Sam says at length, softly and tenderly so his brother won’t get worked up again, “I know this is difficult to hear. I totally get that you wanna spring Bela to try and make up for what we did, but… Dean it was years ago. In Hell-time that’s gotta be like five times the stint you did in the pit. Bela- or at least the Bela we knew- is long gone by now. She’s full metal Demon for sure.”

 

Dean looks away, chewing his lip for a while, his fingers peeling off the label on his bottle. Eventually he sighs, accepting Sam’s words reluctantly. Sam lets out a breath, thinking he may have averted disaster after all, when Dean’s eyes suddenly light up, and he turns back to face his brother.

 

“Okay Sam,” Dean says, filled with something resembling excitement or determination, “you’re right, Bela’s out. I can make this right though. I can make it better.” Dean stands from the table, starting to head for the door before Sam can even fathom what’s happened. He watches on in confusion as Dean turns on his heel and yells, “Just wait Sam! I’ll make it right!”

 

This cannot be good, Sam thinks, gulping.

 

* * *

 

 

“I pray to Castiel. The nerd owes me a favour.”

 

Dean’s standing out in the scrapyard in his pyjamas – well, boxers and a tee – but apart from some strange looks from Bobby as he ran past a minute ago to get to the usual ‘Angel meet spot’ he doesn’t give a damn. He has to do this now, he doesn’t have time for thinking or preparations, he needs to get this plan moving because he needs this feeling consuming him to go away.

 

It’s not long before Cas shows up, the air shifting a little, the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck standing to attention, announcing the arrival of the flustered, slightly annoyed looking Angel.

 

“Dean.” Castiel greets a little coldly, and Dean rounds on him at once, knowing full well his eyes are full of mad, wild desperation.

 

“Cas, thank God.”

 

Castiel furrows his brow a little at the unexpected welcome, his annoyance slipping away a little.

 

“I thought you might not come,” Dean continues, explaining himself, “y’know with the Heavenly war and all that.”

 

“Yes, Heaven is in uproar.” Castiel agrees, his tone scolding Dean ever so slightly. “What do you need, Dean?”

 

Dean breathes in through his nostrils, preparing himself for what he’s about to ask. “A favour.” Castiel’s eyebrows raise. “A big one.”

 

“Please, let’s not – as you say – ‘beat around the bush’ here. I have responsibilities, tasks left undone- I left my post to answer your call Dean.” Castiel says, and Dean tries to ignore the extra guilt that comes along with Cas’s words. “Just tell me what you need.”

 

Dean shakes his head, his jaw clenching a little. “Nuh-uh. Not gonna work like that Cas. I need you to be here, fully here, in this moment and friggin’ hear me out- so switch off Angel FM for a second and listen. Cause this is big.”

 

Cas sighs and looks Heavenward for a moment, but seemingly complies. He closes his eyes and concentrates for a second, then relaxes, looking at Dean again, his full attention focused on the man. Castiel looks Dean up and down for the first time since he arrived and his brow furrows.

 

“You’re… underdressed.”

 

Dean’s cheeks heat but he ignores it, not bothering to reply.

 

“Okay, look here’s the deal.” Dean starts, and he explains what Sam found about Bela, about how they’d been wrong damning her to Hell when she was basically innocent, how Dean is consumed with guilt over not just her, but all the friends and good people who have died for him or because of him. Castiel listens intently, his head cocked slightly in that way of his – not interrupting once. When Dean finishes he pauses for a moment, ready to reveal what he needs Cas for.

 

Castiel nods for him to go on, and Dean takes a breath. “I’m gonna rescue Adam from Hell. And I need your help.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a good few minutes of silence, Cas’s wild eyes desperately trying to comprehend Dean’s words.

 

“Adam?” He asks eventually. “Adam Milligan? John Winchester’s illegitimate child?”

 

Dean frowns a little at Cas’s phrasing. “My half-brother, Adam, yeah. He’s in Hell because of me. Not just Hell – the friggin’ _cage_ where Lucifer and Michael are as we speak battling it out for all eternity.”

 

Cas rolls his eyes. “This is ridiculous, you think that I can break him out?”

 

“Damn straight!” Dean fires back at once. “You got Sam! He was in there too wasn’t he?”

 

“And what an excellent job I made of rescuing your full-blood brother Dean! He came back without a soul!” Castiel’s eyes shine with regret, and Dean softens slightly. Cas feels guilty too. He hadn’t thought of that. He didn’t even know Angels could.

 

“Cas, the point is you’ve done it before. Not only that, you’re the only Angel who’s _ever_ broken anyone out of the cage.” Dean says, his voice pleading. “You can help me with this, I know you can- I’ll be with you, we can work out how to do it properly this time-”

 

“So I can ease the burden of your conscience?” Cas interrupts, looking angry. “I believe I may have mentioned this but I have a war to fight in! I can’t just run around satisfying your every whim because you feel badly about this. People get sent to Hell Dean, it’s not always fair but it happens.”

 

Dean feels the rage simmer to a boil in his veins at Cas’s words. He steps closer to the Angel, gritting his teeth. “This is not about me! It never has been, you sanctimonious prick! This is about Adam, a kid who literally got eaten alive by ghouls in front of his own Mom, then brought back to life to be used as a disposable pawn in your species’ Game of fucking Thrones!”

 

Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean, saying nothing.

 

“It’s the fault of _Angels_ that he’s down there just as much as it’s mine.” Dean continues, not even sure where this is coming from but knowing it’s true. “Yeah, I didn’t manage to save him, but it was the army of half-witted, blind, winged soldiers you call siblings that got him in this mess to begin with.”

 

“Dean, it would be foolish and reckless of me to assist you in this _insane_ quest.” Castiel argues, his voice calm now. Dean scoffs, backing away and shaking his head. “I know you think you remember Hell, but you don’t remember all of it. If I take you down there, we will surely die.”

 

Dean groans in frustration. “Bullshit! You’ve been there and gotten out twice before! With a human innocent in tow.”

 

“Don’t you see how that makes us more vulnerable? I’m a wanted entity in Hell, they are literally lying in wait for my return down there, preparing defences against me like white blood cells – it’s a preposterous idea.”

 

Dean shakes his head again. “Gutless. I don’t get it. You’d do it for me, you’d do it for Sammy – Adam is family too dammit. He counts!” Dean jabs a finger at Cas to emphasise his point. “He damn well deserves to be freed and you know it. I’m asking you Cas, begging you even. You’re the only one who can. I need you.”

 

Castiel considers Dean for a long while. He seems to have been defeated by something Dean said, and Dean clings onto this, hoping to Heaven that Cas will be swayed enough to agree – even if he just drops Dean in Hell and tells him how to get to the cage door.

 

“I have to make some arrangements.” Castiel says finally, shoulders slumping. “Meet me here in an hour.”

 

Castiel turns, clearly about to flit away, but Dean reaches out, clamping a hand on his shoulder. “Wait!” He says, and Castiel turns his head. “Is that a yes?”

 

“I will take you there, Dean. But know that I cannot promise our safe return.”

 

Joy fills Dean’s heart, and he practically bursts with relief at these simple words. He almost throws his arms around Cas, but chooses to sort of shake his shoulder in a friendly gesture instead. “Thanks, man. God- thank you so much. I owe you.”

 

Castiel looks at Dean for an extended moment, and then Dean’s hand falls through thin air. Castiel has flown away.


	2. The First Layer: Limbo

“You did _what_?!” Sam cries, hysterical as he watches Dean throwing some weapons onto the bed. “Holy shit Dean, what the Hell were you thinking?!”

 

Dean pauses and turns to look at Sam, a smirk on his face. Sam rolls his eyes.

 

“Yeah, haha – ‘what the Hell’, no pun intended, right.” Sam allows. “Answer the question Dean!”

 

Dean shrugs, going back to choosing his weapons, sliding knives and guns into his jacket, his belt, his boots. “I told you – I persuaded Cas to take me to rescue Adam.”

 

“From the cage.” Sam iterates.

 

“Yup.”

 

“Are you insane?” Sam asks, genuinely wondering. “Do you have any idea what the cage is _like_?!”

 

Dean sighs, straightening his clothes and turning to Sam. “No Sammy. I don’t. But I’m gonna find out real soon.”

 

“How could you possibly think this is a good idea?!” Sam asks. “Cas is an Angel, so yeah he has a better chance than most at getting in and out of Hell without too bad of a scrape- but you?! You’re famous down there Dean. You’re the one that got away, the ‘righteous man’, the one who helped kickstart the apocalypse and then shut the whole thing down! Think they’re gonna be happy to see you?”

 

“Sam, I already told you, I gotta do this.” Dean says simply, and he heads towards the stairs, taking them two at a time because he’s gonna be late to meet Cas otherwise. “You’re not gonna talk me out of this, Adam’s our brother- I’m bringing him back.”

 

Sam clamps a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he heads for the front door. “All I’m asking is that you wait for a minute, think it through-”

 

Dean swivels round and brushes Sam’s hand away. “No.” He says firmly. “I’m done thinking. I just need to do something good, something that will make up for all the shit we’ve caused. I need to do this Sammy, I need it if I’m gonna go on this way or I just can’t.”

 

Sam looks exasperated, desperate even. “You’re gonna die. You’re gonna leave me without a brother.”

 

Dean smiles softly. “No Sammy, I’m gonna bring you back another one.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dean runs to the meeting spot, waving to Bobby on the way – none the wiser poor guy, but Sam will fill him in later. Cas is already there of course, waiting stoically, his face haunted with the voices of his brothers, probably pleading with him not to go. Dean squashes down the guilt – he can’t face it just yet. One thing at a time.

 

He smiles when Cas sees him. “Let’s hit the road, Jack!”

 

Cas cocks his head. “My name is Castiel.”

 

Dean sighs, preparing himself mentally for a month or so of this (Hell time). “Actually your name is Cas.” Dean counters, smiling. He doesn’t know why he’s happy given the nature of their mission, he’s probably just relieved that he’s finally doing something about this guilt festering inside of him. “Well, that’s what you are to me, anyway.”

 

Cas actually seems mildly amused by this answer, so Dean considers it a win. He draws himself up to his full height then, and allows his expression to grow sombre. He reminds himself of the mission ahead, briefing it in his mind – a habit left over from his John-days.

 

“So where to, smiley?”

 

“There are several entrances to Hell. One of the most famous is, as it happens, one I have never used. It is atop the volcano mankind have called Mount Etna, the very spot where the Ancient Greek God Hades stole Persephone into the underworld.”

 

“Italy?!” Dean asks, a tiny spark of excitement flickering inside him at the thought of going to Europe. “Alright! How do we get th-”

 

Dean is cut off firstly by the feeling of Castiel’s two fingers pressing lightly to his forehead, followed by the sensation of the Earth falling away beneath him and soaring across land and sea in less than a second.

 

“-ere…” Dean finishes woozily, swaying on his feet and then stumbling once he and Castiel are back on solid ground. Castiel props him upright with a strong, resilient arm, and Dean clings on for a moment, doubled over in case he has to hurl. “Damn Cas,” Dean growls, “ _warn_ a guy.”

 

Eventually the sickening, dizzy feeling ebbs away and Dean straightens, gazing around himself, finding his clothes suddenly an unbearable padding of unnecessary layers in the extreme heat. The sights around him are utterly breathtaking, views stretching for miles along the Sicilian skyline, everything glowing auburn in the dimming light of early dusk.

 

“Dean, are you ready?” Cas asks, sounding surprisingly patient.

 

Dean turns to his companion, realising too late that he’s still clutching Cas’s arm like a life jacket. He drops it and nods, reluctant to leave this awesome mountaintop, but eager to get on with the mission and out of the heat.

 

“Very well.” Cas steps into the centre of the crater they stand beside – a vast area covering a significant amount of the summit. He crouches low to the ground and runs his fingers through the ash, bringing some to his nose to inhale, even tasting some. Dean, thoroughly weirded out, decides that he may as well go after Cas, as the dude probably knows what he’s doing. “There is a problem.” Cas says in a matter-of-fact way once Dean is close enough, and Dean’s stomach twists. “This is an active, fertile and easily provoked stratovolcano. Once we open the gateway, an eruption will undoubtedly occur.”

 

Dean sucks in a breath. “Holy shit. An eruption? Like lava and shit?”

 

Cas rolls his eyes and stands up to his full height, brushing off the volcanic dust. “It will most likely be a minor eruption. Probably not lethal.”

 

“But you’re not sure?” Dean asks, hesitant.

 

Castiel looks at Dean, noting his confliction. “Wait here, I’ll be back in a moment.”

 

In an instant he is gone, leaving Dean staring at the space behind Cas, the miles of ocean and sunkissed Italy, spanning forever.

 

He waits for Castiel – not that he has a choice in the matter – shifting uncomfortably in the humidity. He tries to avoid thinking about what’s behind this gateway. He’s been successful in avoiding the topic in his mind so far. His memories of Hell are brutal, abhorrent and unbearable to even contemplate – and here he is willingly jumping back into the fire, volunteering even.

 

Dean isn’t stupid. Cas and Sam were right to try and dissuade him. This is a mad plan, even for him, but he can’t give it up now. He needs to do something reckless and crazy for the good of someone honest and innocent and deserving. He needs it, or he’ll never feel ‘righteous’ again.

 

At that moment, Cas flits back into existence beside him, basically unchanged, but with an expression of satisfaction on his face. Dean sighs in relief. The Angel has damn well gone and solved the problem hasn’t he?

 

“I believe I have solved the issue.” Cas says, a tad smugly Dean thinks with amusement.

 

“Oh yeah? How’d you manage that one, Sherlock?”

 

“I visited Sam, and told him to use Bobby’s anonymous phone to call the Sicilian Etna Volcano Monitoring Team to issue a warning to the town of Etna.” Cas explains. “They will evacuate within the hour, giving us time to open the gate.”

 

Dean nods, lip jutting out because he’s impressed. He has to hand it to Cas, the guy has some smart ideas. Though if it was him, he probably would have avoided getting Sammy involved. He doesn’t need to worry any more than he already will.

 

“Nice one, Cas. Sounds foolproof.” Dean says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now, how do we ‘open sesame’ this sonofabitch?”

 

* * *

 

 

The ritual takes over an hour, involving lots of drawing symbols into the ash, chanting in Enochian and Latin, along with all the other usual mumbo jumbo – drops of their blood, bones of a sinner, that kind of stuff.

 

Dean’s about ready to scream when Cas finally turns to him and says it is complete.

 

“Alright! What now?”

 

“Now we place our hands in the ash, just above this symbol here-”

 

Cas indicates where he means on the intricate pattern he’s created. They lay their hands above a misshapen star and Cas closes his eyes, concentrating. He murmurs an incantation three times over, a crease in his forehead.

 

_“Ore enim ad inferos_

_qui aperis, et risus”_

 

The earth underneath them begins to tremble and crack, Dean’s heart pounds as his feet scrabble for purchase on the rapidly shifting rock. A sickening roar erupts from all around, gushing through his brain, eliminating all other sounds. He is certain he will tumble into the depths of the earth via the mouth of this monstrous volcano, when he feels a strong grip hauling him to the side, clutching his arm and dragging him in a particular direction. The ash is flying up in a magnificent cloud, sparks are beginning to fly up out of the earth below; Dean cannot see where he is being taken, but it’s okay, Cas is leading them and he is sure, he has done this, he can be trusted.

 

Then, all at once, the roaring quietens, changing to horrific silence, and the world goes dark. They are inside.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean can’t think, he can’t breathe, there is only emptiness and heat and pressure, the muggy, scratching air boring into his skin. He barely notices Cas’s hold around his torso, only vaguely registering the fact that Cas is moving them steadily downwards, descending further into the unbearable atmosphere – Dean wonders why the damn Angel can’t see they’re about to disintegrate-

 

Then, all at once, he’s okay.

 

He feels warmth surrounding him, along with a feeling of light, fluffy purity – so far from the intense discomfort not two seconds earlier that he wants to cry. He peels open his eyelids, not even remembering they had been closed all this time and sees nothing but golden, shimmering feathers.

 

Cas’s wings, he realises with awe. He’s surrounded in a fort of Cas’s enormous, magnificent wings.

 

His breathing at once returns to normal, and he actually feels better than he has done in weeks. The wings seem to be almost glowing, a light source in themselves, perhaps healing him, or maybe just protecting him from wherever they are. Dean gathers himself together, telling himself not to be such a wimp, that it's still just _Cas,_ and he takes a breath, tapping gingerly on a large clump of Cas’s feathers.

 

“Uh, Cas?” His own voice sounds strange, unfamiliar, like a scratch against granite. Dean jumps at the sound.

 

The wings unfurl slightly, allowing Dean to peer out from within the downy masses and search for Castiel’s face. He meets two piercing, utterly cobalt glowing blue eyes, filled with fear and anticipation of the worst.

 

“I believe you should stay enclosed for a moment longer, Dean.” Cas informs him, clearly trying to hide how petrified he is at this moment. “I am healing you after the damage caused by the atmosphere down here. Living humans are not intended to survive this place.”

 

“Crap.” Dean mutters, retreating back into his feathery cave. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

 

Cas lifts his wings then, tucking them securely away atop his back where they belong. Dean is open-mouthed in awe. He realises belatedly that they are now on the ground. Well, some sort of surface, anyway.

 

“I did, actually.” Castiel replies to Dean’s question. “I didn’t tell you because you aren’t going to like the solution I came up with.”

 

Dean goes wide-eyed. Damn, maybe bringing Heaven’s renegade Angel with him on this mission wasn’t actually the greatest idea. He subconsciously takes a step backward, then immediately comes closer again, because he is surrounded by utter black nothingness right now – and yeah, he’s in Hell. Like it or not, Cas is his best hope now.

 

“Give me your hand.” Castiel demands in a soft voice, and holds out his own.

 

Dean looks at it warily. “What are you gonna do?”

 

“It will be nothing compared to how the very fabric of this dimension will tear your living flesh apart Dean.” Castiel answers, and Dean wishes he couldn’t feel the heat and clawing sensations cascading over his body again, but he can and that means trouble. He places his hand in Castiel’s, wincing already, expecting pain. “Thank you.”

 

“Don’t mention it.” Dean says bitterly, his sarcasm a bit cruel perhaps, considering that Cas is only trying to help.

 

Almost instantly a sharp, severe pain threads itself underneath the skin of Dean’s wrist, and he cries out, trying to pull free of Cas’s grip – a useless task of course. Cas holds firm and the sensation continues, searing into Dean’s flesh, bringing hot stinging tears to his eyes.

 

And then he is released; the pain stops as quickly as it came, Cas has let go of him. Dean snatches his hand back and cradles his wrist, looking at Castiel in mild fear.

 

“What the hell _was_ that?” He questions nervously, raising his voice to cover his fear.

 

“Look at your skin.” Castiel replies calmly.

 

Dean hesitates, but does what he’s told. He brings his wrist in front of his face gingerly, peering at the stinging flesh in the gloom. A mark is there where it wasn’t before, large and pink in colour, puffy like a newly formed scar. It is curly in shape, like scripture, but forming no word or letter in any language Dean knows. It loops around itself in an intricate pattern, looking very much as though someone has drawn in into Dean’s skin with a burning hot poker.

 

                                                                                            

 

“So… this’ll protect me from the atmosphere or whatever?” Dean asks sceptically, carefully turning his wrist over and checking out the new addition to his skin.

 

“I’m almost certain.” Castiel answers, looking slightly distracted as he surveys the place they are in.

 

“ _Almost?_ ” Dean asks, his voice a couple of pitches higher. “Cas, I swear, if you put a swirly skin tat on me and it doesn’t even work-”

 

Castiel shushes him, ears practically pricking as he hears some far off sound outside Dean’s range. Dean just waits, nerves beginning to roil up again in his stomach.

 

A few moments pass, and Castiel visibly relaxes.

 

“They are close.” Castiel says, and Dean wonders who ‘they’ are. “They have sensed outsiders entering this realm. You are cloaked for now with the mark, but they can still trace us eventually. We should move.”

 

Castiel begins to walk in a seemingly random direction at this, expecting Dean to follow.

 

“Wait!” Dean cries out, running to keep up with the Angel. “Where even are we right now? This looks nothing like what I remember-”

 

Castiel rounds on Dean, shaking his head as if fearing for him. “No, Dean. What you remember of Hell is just one part of its vast Kingdom.” Dean gulps, sure he’s not going to like what Castiel is inferring. “We will get to where you were eventually, and then from there into the cage, but first we must pass through all of Hell’s many layers.”

 

“Layers? You mean… Like Danté was right?” Dean asks, his voice now a squeak.

 

Castiel nods. “Danté was one of the first to see all of Hell and therefore be able to write about it as it truly is.” Dean reels at the information. “He still got many things wrong however, as you will see. Perhaps it was his human brain, not able to comprehend the true horror.”

 

“Awesome.” Dean says bitterly. “So… ‘many’ layers? How many are we talkin’ here?”

 

“Six.”

 

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, steeling himself for the mission ahead.

 

“And we’re in the first layer?”

 

“No,” Cas says evenly, drawing his Angel blade free as though it were nothing, “we’re on the outskirts. The fringe of Hell if you will. To get to the first layer we must continue onwards.”

 

“Oh…” Dean says, looking around him, frustrated by the endless black gloom. “Okay then. Hit me – what’s the first layer?”

 

Castiel draws himself up, puffing his chest out slightly. “Draw your blade.”

 

This seems to be the only answer Dean will be getting, and Cas has already started moving again, so Dean draws his knife free and follows.

 

* * *

 

 

Demons. A Hell of a lot of them – excuse the pun – thinks Dean as he steps forward into a cavernous hollowed out shell under the earth. Thick, viscous black and red smoke darts about him, and Dean just stands, unable to process the number of free-flying Demons in this place, and the futility of his knife against them. It isn’t until he lowers his head that he sees the Demons on the ground, clad in their meatsuits, black-eyed and smirking as they notice the Angel and the soul-filled human in the depths of their domain.

 

“Cas…” Dean starts, but the Angel is clearly distracted, holding his hand up high, ready to smite.

 

“Prepare yourself Dean. We have reached the outer circle of Hell.” Castiel says quickly, eyes darting about him as the Demons begin to take notice. “Thousands of Demons pool up to this layer, bubbling up to the surface like pond scum, feeling along the edges of their prison for a crack in the surface, ready to slip out.”

 

Dean shivers as Castiel talks, understanding. “Like Ruby.”

 

Castiel side eyes him for a moment. “Yes.” A pause, and then, “Be ready, Dean. We have to make it through them all to get to the entrance of the next layer.”

 

Dean nods, his worst fears being realised, but he grips his blade tightly, anchoring his eyes on the several non-smokified Demons that he can plunge it into. “I’ll take the meatsuits, you focus on the smokey Joe’s, capiche?”

 

“Capiche.” Castiel confirms, and Dean can’t help but grin a little upon hearing his favourite word in Castiel’s gruff voice.

 

They charge together at precisely the same moment, no code word necessary, and the fight immerses them almost completely; Dean knows at once they will never make it out of this alive.

 

There are thousands of them, swarming from every direction, and they catch on fast that Dean can’t be harmed unless they are in their vessels. Dean loses count of how many times Ruby’s knife plunges into brightly illuminating chest cavities. Castiel is nowhere to be seen amongst the bloodbath, but Dean has no doubts that his friend is valiantly battling somewhere nearby.

 

He has literally no clue how he will get out of this, the Demons keep coming at him, snarling and twisted, their faces distorted in this evil place. All at once, a cry of anguish erupts all around him, and the Demons charging towards him clutch their ears, howling in pain. The space is lit up, brilliant and ultramarine; Dean shields his eyes, his mind thinking _Cas._

 

He feels a hand gripping him suddenly, and he jolts, pulling his knife out, ready to stab, maim and kill, but it is just Cas, his eyes urgent, tugging Dean forwards while the Demons recover on the floor. Dean goes with him willingly, realising his utter helplessness in this place, his total dependence on this one beautifully brave and determined Angel that he is so, _so_ lucky to have.

 

They reach a place, eventually, that Cas seems satisfied is far enough away that they won’t be reached, and he lets Dean stop for a moment, to catch his breath after all the running.

 

“What… the hell… did you _do_ man?!” Dean pants, holding onto Cas’s shoulder for support, wiping the blood from his hands onto his jeans.

 

“It appears my Grace is still powerful enough to vanquish those abominations.” Castiel says, his nose wrinkling with disgust. “The further we go into Hell, the more my Grace will diminish Dean, I warn you of this now.”

 

“Woah.” Dean says, processing. He stands up straight at last, feeling sweat run over him in rivulets. It’s hot down here, he thinks, who knew? “Well, it was awesome and it saved our asses.”

 

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel replies, looking ever so slightly amused..

 

Dean looks embarrassed for a second. “Yeah, so where to now Gulliver?”

 

Castiel tilts his head quizzically, but seems to let the reference slide in favour of getting out of this terrifying layer. “There should be a door along here…”

 

Castiel starts moving along what looks to Dean like further blackness, but eventually stops in a certain position, looking intently into the space before his nose.

 

“Uh?”

 

“Ostende ostium.” Castiel chants into darkness, and the very fabric of the air itself seems to split apart, a dull greenish light emanating from within the crack.

 

Castiel smiles, satisfied, and begins to hook his hands into the gap, pulling at the seams, trying to make it wider. Cas pulls with seemingly all his might, and Dean wants to ask if he needs help, but then again he’s just a human. Castiel has more strength in his little finger than Dean has in his whole body.

 

Instead, he just watches, slightly awestruck, as the seam grows into a chasm, the light beyond it drenching Cas, practically blinding after all the darkness. At last, the gap is wide enough to fit through, just, and at that moment Castiel grabs for Dean, catching him by the arm and roughly shoving him through.


	3. The Second Layer: Styx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, not like the band Dean.

Dean stumbles out the other side, nearly falling over, and he wants to complain. He stands, only to have Cas barrel straight into him, and this time he does fall over, Cas on top of him, both of them hitting the jagged, dust laden floor with much more force than Dean would like.

 

“Was that really necessary?!” Dean cries, his voice a little higher than usual for some reason. Cas frowns down at him, obviously displeased.

 

“Do you think the doorways stay open for long, Dean? There is no time for waiting around in this place.”

 

Castiel looks around himself, eyes narrowed.

 

“Uh, Cas?”

 

“Quiet, Dean. I’m assessing the atmosphere.”

 

“… _Cas._ ”

 

Castiel tuts. “What?”

 

“Can you… get off me?”

 

Castiel seems to notice he’s lying on Dean for the first time. He looks down at Dean’s body, pinned beneath his for a moment, and then moves. “Apologies.”

 

Dean winces as he stands. The first layer has already given him a few aches and pains, a crick in his neck for one, and a slight limp, which is just not good. He rolls up his sleeve, grimacing at a large, dripping gash on his arm, one that some bitch of a demon sliced into him before he could plunge the knife in. It’s the kind of gash that he’d ideally like to bandage. Oh, well. He’ll live, he thinks. Well, maybe.

 

He doesn’t notice Cas looking at the wound until the Angel is cradling it, gingerly, bringing Dean’s arm close to his face for inspection. Castiel glances up at Dean’s face, studying it, so it seems, and then nods, maybe to himself. He lifts his palm, and carefully, intently strokes his hand over Dean’s forearm. Dean winces, waiting for the pain that comes with people touching goddamn bleeding open wounds, but none comes. When Castiel removes his hand, the cut is gone.

 

“Woah, thanks man.” Dean says, pulling his arm back and inspecting it, prodding the new skin. “You didn’t have to- I mean, I could’ve lived without that one.”

 

“In later levels you may have to.” Castiel replies solemnly. “It took more effort than usual to heal you then. My grace is getting weaker.”

 

Dean tries not to let it show how much that terrifies him. It occurs to him that they have not actually been attacked thus far on this second layer. In fact, Dean has yet to even look around properly. He swivels on the spot, away from Cas, and finds himself looking out at a landscape so beautiful he’s sure he’s in the wrong place.

 

He turns back to Cas, looking for signs of confusion on the Angel’s features, but Cas seems unperturbed. In front of the two men is a vast, shimmering lake, seemingly endless in its expanse, stretching far into the horizon. The sky is streaked with colours Dean has never witnessed naturally – violets, chartreuses, pinks and vermilions, sprinkled with sparse, feathery clouds. The sun must have just set, thinks Dean, and it must be just below the horizon, because the lake is gleaming with colour, extending out from the back, creating a mirror top of gorgeous, silken vibrancy.

 

“Dean.”

 

Castiel’s voice is a warning, serious and low. It’s so at odds with the miraculous beauty of what’s before them. Why is he so filled with concern? This layer isn’t awful at all, it’s incredible. There’s white sand under Dean's boots. There are towering, rustling green trees surrounding the edges of the water. He’s pretty sure he can see schools of silvery fish and curling eels glinting just below the surface of the lake. Dean’s sure he’s never seen anything akin to this in all his years.

 

“Dean! Stop.” Castiel’s hand is on his arm, and with that strength that never fails to remind Dean exactly who he’s dealing with, Cas spins him round, forcing their eyes to meet. Dean blinks, his mind clearing. “Don’t go any further.”

 

Dean glances back at the lake, and recoils in horror. What had once been an inviting pool of technicolour is now a great, never ending sea of thick, writhing black tar. The longer he looks, the more horrifying the sight becomes. There is no sky full of colour, as Dean had thought; instead there is only putrid darkness, so devoid of light that Dean’s stomach curdles, reminded of every horror he can fathom. As he stares at the lake, illuminated by intense, swirling green fires surrounding it, Dean sees that there actually _things_ writhing below the surface. People, Dean thinks – souls. Every so often a hand will reach out of the murk, clawing at the air above, only to sink back into the abyss. It’s as Dean looks down at his own feet, so close to the shoreline – fuck, he doesn’t even remember walking forwards – that he realises. This lake isn’t tar. It’s blood.

 

Breathing heavily, trying to push away the panic he feels, he grips hold of Cas’s coat sleeve, so glad of it in that moment. Something real to hold on to. He breaks his gaze from the lake, stares into Cas’s eyes, focusing on the pure, glistening blue.

 

“Dean, you must be on your guard. Hell is designed to trick you. It wants your soul, Dean. It wants to keep you here.”

 

“You mean…” Dean says, still breathing hard. “The demons that live here. They want to trick me into staying.”

 

Castiel shakes his head, giving Dean a worried look. As if he’s scared Dean doesn’t know this already. “No. Hell is like a living entity in itself. Think of it like a great monster. We entered through the jaws, and we are trying to fight our way to the belly of the beast. But it knows we’re here.”

 

“It’s not gonna be easy to leave, huh?” Dean asks, and he knows the answer, but Castiel shakes his head anyway. “Well, maybe if we do enough damage, the bitch will wanna shit us out.”

 

Dean tries a weak grin, and Castiel smiles back, probably just to reassure him. In all honesty, Dean’s terrified to turn around again.

 

Castiel, however, badass that he is, straightens, his hand falling from Dean’s arm. He turns to the lake, drawing up to his full height.

 

“We should move. The longer we are here, the faster they will find us.”

 

Dean just decides not to ask exactly who Cas is talking about. Man, Adam better be a damn sight more grateful for this than he was about being brought back to life the first time around.

 

Dean turns too then, and Cas looks over at him questioningly. Dean just looks back, blankly, then sees his hand still clinging to Cas’s coat. He feels his cheeks heat a little, and drops it. Castiel doesn’t say anything about it, and for this Dean is grateful.

 

“CITATUS CHARON!” Castiel suddenly booms, making Dean damn near jump out of his skin.

 

A deathly, hideous screech erupts from the lake, and Dean slams his hands over his ears. The souls, he realises, they are screaming, their human voices lost now, their burned, choked vocal chords forcing out the sounds.

 

“I warn you, Dean.” Castiel shouts, barely audible, and Dean hates him a little for making him remove his hands from his ears. “This won’t be easy. I have summoned Charon, who takes the souls across the river, but we cannot go with him.”

 

“Why not?!” Dean yells back as a great gust of wind swoops at them from nowhere, leaving Dean fighting to stay rooted to the spot. He watches jealously as Castiel calmly stands in place, unmovable, his trench coat billowing behind him like a superhero's cloak.

 

The green fires are towering inferno's now, blazing as high as Dean can see, angry and severe looking. Dean has to avert his eyes from their brightness for fear of being blinded. He looks at Cas instead, struggling to keep his balance as the wind forces itself at him.  

 

“Neither of us are a damned soul. He will try instead to kill us on sight.” Cas replies, as if nothing has happened.

 

Dean has no idea how he can even hear Cas right now, what with the howls of the dead and the furious hurricane that came from nowhere. He splutters in response to Cas's words. “Great! So we gotta kill this guy?!”

 

“No, he cannot die. We must merely restrain him so that we can get across.”

 

“And I’m sure that’ll be super easy, right?!”

 

This time, Castiel doesn’t answer. He’s become distracted, gaze fixated on something in the distance. It pains Dean to look back across the lake, at the horror of it, but he does. Sure enough, an object moves steadily towards them, slicing through the blood, creating sickening ripples. It slices through the souls too, tearing them apart without hesitation, just ploughing forwards as though nothing were in its way. It’s a boat, Dean can see, as it grows nearer, though the figure standing on it is vague, just a shape. Dean squints at it, confused by the light of the fires, trying to make sense of what he's seeing.

 

The boat is narrow, as black as ash, with a curled prow. It moves without sails or oars, which just makes the whole thing ten times creepier. Dean shudders as it gets close, and Castiel tenses.

 

“Be ready.”

 

Dean nods. The boat slows to a halt at the shoreline, a few arms lengths away from where he and Cas stand. Dean doesn’t understand why he still can’t make out the figure on it. He thinks it’s hooded, possibly cloaked, like a grim reaper kind of deal, but it also looks sort of… blurred. Just like a vague outline of a figure, a shadow, not a physical being.

 

“Cas,” Dean hisses as the figure moves up the boat towards them, “why can’t I see this dude?!”

 

Castiel spares him a look of surprised worry, which is in absolutely no way reassuring, and then there’s a piercing scream. It’s louder than the souls had been, though they’ve died down now, and it’s shriller, rattling the bones in Dean’s body. Charon swipes at them from his position on the boat, Dean ducking out of the way just in time.

 

"It's sensed we are not souls of the damned." Castiel tells Dean, drawing his Angel blade, his wings rippling slightly.

 

Well, that’s it, Dean thinks, the blurry bitch is going down. Whether its his 'job' or not, nobody gets to try and knock him out and get away with it. He starts towards the thing, ready to clamber up onto its little loveboat and start throwing punches, but suddenly he feels arms wrapping around him, clasping him tightly, stopping him in his tracks.

 

He squirms and struggles against them, terrified, only to find himself thrown across the decidedly not sandy ‘shore’. He lies there for a second, groaning and feeling every one of the rocks that dug into his back just then, but he makes himself sit up - he's in the middle of a fight, goddammit. He's just in time to watch as Cas unfurls his huge, fucking mesmerising wings, spreading them wide, poised for attack. Dean's mouth falls open, and he looks on, awestruck once again, to see Cas beat them once, twice, lifting himself into the air, and flying forwards onto the boat, tackling Charon easily, deftly ducking all attacks until he’s got his Angel blade against the bastard’s throat, Charon’s back pressed to his front.

 

Charon hisses and screams, struggling in Cas’s grasp, but this just drags the point of the blade over its neck, breaking the… skin? Does it even have skin, Dean wonders? Whatever happens, it ceases struggling, knowing its been beaten. Dean focuses on Cas’s face, partly because there’s not much else to focus on, but mostly because Cas looks… fucking awesome. Dean has seen Cas rocking some pretty badass moves on earth, and even in Heaven, but this…

 

Cas’s wings, gleaming syrupy gold and seeming to give off their own brilliance, are spread out wide behind him, fanned out to their fullest, as though he’s showing this piece of Hell scum exactly how powerful he is. His face is stone cold, menacing and inches from Charon’s, those blue eyes of his glowing like orbs, watching his every movement probably. One of his strong, sure hands grips what looks like Charon’s head, and with the other, he grasps the blade, holding it tight against his neck, not budging an inch.

 

Dean damn sure wishes he had a camera, a phone, anything to preserve this image. If he had to remember Cas one way, forever, it would be like this. Because knowing a creature so pure, so awesome, so fucking incredible would even think to indulge Dean Winchester on a whim like this… it’s practically unthinkable. He really needs to stop being such a bitch to the guy. 

 

Castiel looks up then, meets Dean’s eyes, and Dean has to look away. It’s stupid, he knows, but he doesn’t feel… _worthy_ to meet Cas’s gaze right now. Instead, he focuses on getting up from where he’s sprawled on his ass, helping nothing, and jogs back over to him.

 

As he nears the two of them, he realises Cas is murmuring something, quietly. It’s Enochian, Dean recognises, though he has no idea what’s being said. All at once, Castiel releases Charon, and Dean tenses, wondering why the fuck he did that. But Charon is motionless, stuck fast in the same position Cas held him. Dean huffs an impressed laugh.

 

“Way to go, Cas.”

 

“Thank you.” Castiel says, suddenly right beside him, wings tucked away once more. He looks like normal, everyday Cas again, but the image of him, halo practically glowing around him as he fought that creature alone, it will forever be burned into Dean’s mind. Dean swallows a little, staring at Cas just a bit too long. “It won’t hold for long. We need to move.”

 

Dean nods, tucking his knife away, feeling only slightly useless. “Why’d you, uh, why’d you throw me over there? I could’ve helped.”

 

Castiel seems to very nearly roll his eyes. “You were about to wade willingly into the river, Dean. If you set foot in the River Styx you will be pulled under instantly. Do you think those souls are in there by choice?”

 

“Woah, woah, hold up… the river Styx? Like the band?” Dean asks, and this time Castiel really does roll his eyes.

 

“We don’t have time for a lesson in Greek mythology. Remove your shirt.”

 

Dean laughs a little, immediately moving to shrug off his jacket. “Hey, it’s not my fault that I was the less nerdy sibling- wait, _what?_ Why am I removing my shirt exactly?”

 

Castiel sighs impatiently, glancing at the frozen Charon with a slightly anxious look. “Hell is hot, Dean. Surely, if nothing else, you remember that. If you wear all of those layers, you will overheat and die of dehydration or heat stroke. Remove your shirt now, and you may survive.”

 

Dean blinks at him for a minute. Of all the things he thought Hell might throw at him, this is not one of them. “I-I’m not removing my shirt, Cas. I’ll take off my jacket, alright? But running around Hell shirtless? Yeah, no thanks.”

 

Castiel looks annoyed at this response, but doesn’t object verbally. Dean shrugs off the rest of his jacket, reaching into the pocket for his spare ammo, his flick knife, and his lighter. Then he lets the jacket fall to the floor.

 

“What about you?”

 

“I don’t feel temperature.”

 

Dean thinks about mentioning the fact that Cas’s grace is rapidly disappearing, and therefore one would think that makes him more or less human – as in, a human that very much feels hot or cold, but he doesn’t.

 

“Okay, then Mr Badass, lead on.”

 

Castiel turns to him, relieved that they can finally go, and holds out his open palm. “Take my hand.”

 

Dean hesitates, thinking about asking if it’s really necessary, but then again, who the fuck is he kidding? There’s nobody even here. Cas is just blinking at him, wondering what the hold up is, because to him it’s not strange at all to ask this of Dean. His friend, his companion. Really, Dean should stop being such a girl about it and just take his best friend’s hand. So he does.

 

Cas’s palm is cool and dry compared to Dean’s warm, damp fingers, but Cas makes no comment, doesn’t even seem to notice. His fingers are tight around Dean’s, his eyes closed, as if concentrating hard. Gasping a little in a way he would definitely deny doing later on, Dean watches as Cas’s wings unfurl themselves again, that much more amazing up close, practically glittering in the light of the emerald flames.

 

Dean reaches out to touch one, just to brush his fingers along a feather, to know what it feels like, but at that moment, Cas’s eyes fly open, and Dean drops his hand like it was caught in the cookie jar.

 

“I’m afraid… I’m not strong enough for this.” Castiel says, and he sounds ashamed. Dean wants nothing more than to hug him right then, to reassure him that whatever it is, he’s the biggest badass Dean has literally ever laid eyes on, so he’s sure they’ll figure it out. “You’re going to need to embrace me.”

 

Dean’s brain short circuits. Uh… okay, it’s one thing to think about doing something, but quite another to actually have it requested of you.

 

“Uh, Cas, I-”

 

“ _Now,_ Dean, we’ve wasted enough time.”

 

Dean swallows at the sound of that authoritative tone, and immediately moves forwards, slipping his hands around Cas’s waist, hands brushing against hundreds of seemingly impossibly soft feathers. Is Cas into subconscious wish-granting now or something? What the Hell is going on?

 

“Hold on tight.” Cas says in his low voice, and then his own arms are circling Dean, clasping them against one another.

 

Dean doesn’t remember closing his eyes – why would he do such a thing – but he must have done, because when he opens them, his feet are no longer touching the floor. Below them is just an endless sea of crimson, souls clawing at their ankles as Cas uses his powerful wings to soar across the lake, each beat bringing them closer to whatever waits on the other side.

 

Dean just clings, squeezes his eyes shut again, lets go of everything, and loses himself in the feel of Cas’s embrace.

 

* * *

 

 

They must have been flying for days by now, Dean thinks, dazed. How Cas has the strength to keep going, he has no idea. He doesn’t even know how Cas knows where it is he’s going. Hell, maybe Cas has no fucking clue. He’s got this look of determination on his face, but for all Dean knows, it could be for show.

 

Every time Dean looks down, behind him, he sees the same thing. The river of blood, the souls desperate to be free, the green fire flickering at the edges. Sometimes he and Cas talk, but mostly they are silent, mostly its just the sound of the souls screaming as they pass, and the steady beats of Cas’s wings. Cas was right about the heat though, it’s stifling. Like a friggin’ sauna.

 

He lost his ability to grip onto Cas days ago, but Cas’s vice like hold is unrelenting. It’s kind of… really fucking weird, having Cas clasping him to his chest like this, their faces very close unless Dean tucks his chin into Cas’s shoulder. But by now, after all this time, he’s kind of used to it.

 

He thinks he keeps drifting off to sleep, but who knows? Maybe he’s just blacking out periodically from boredom. Thinking about it, he doesn’t really feel tired in this place, nor does he have many other human urges. Like, he doesn’t need to pee, and hasn’t since he got here. He’s not hungry, really, no more than normal anyway. He glances up at Cas, and the Angel looks down at him briefly.

 

Man, they are really close together right now. He wonders what Cas is thinking. He’s never really noticed Cas’s eyes before coming here. They’re basically swimming with different shades of blue. Dean wonders if Cas’s grace is showing through, and if that’s what’s making them so vivid, like miniature whirlpools.

 

He finds himself leaning forwards a little, looking closer. He can feel Cas’s breath against his lips, warm and sweet. His eyes dart to Cas’s mouth on instinct, just wondering-

 

Woah. What the fuck is happening?! Dean jerks his head back, screwing his eyes shut, pushing all thoughts out of his brain. Okay, close proximity with an Angel for too long obviously has… weird effects. He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of all stray thoughts. He can’t believe he just contemplated…

 

Never mind.

 

“Cas, are we ever going to land again?” Dean is well aware he sounds impatient, tetchy, and he has no right to. Cas is here as a favour, and Dean should basically be nothing but super duper nice.

 

He can't help it though. It's the same with Sam when they're cooped up together for too long on the road. He's bound to get a little grumpy, that's just how it goes. 

 

“I believe we are about half a day’s flight from our destination.” Castiel replies. He’s looking at Dean strangely, a furrow in his brow, as though he can’t comprehend Dean’s state of mind right now.

 

That makes two of them, Dean thinks. “Thank God. I’m goin’ stir-crazy here. Who knew this danger-filled mission would be so friggin'  _boring_?”

 

Dean thinks he might have imagined it at first, but upon closer inspection, he sees Cas is smiling, amusedly. Dean chuckles at the sight.

 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Where’s my in-flight entertainment, huh?”

 

“How would you like me to entertain you, Dean?”

 

Dean pauses for a second, kicking away the remnants of any weird urges from before that made a sudden second appearance at Cas’s question. “Um, I dunno. How about I ask you some stuff?”

 

Castiel glances down at him. “About what?”

 

Dean pretends to contemplate this question for a second, and then says, “What about the first time? That you came here, I mean.”

 

For a brief, absolutely terrifying moment where Dean nearly shits himself, Castiel’s wings falter, and they drop a little in the air. Castiel regulates himself easily, but Dean is left clinging to him so tightly it would bruise a regular human.

 

“When… I rescued you from Hell?” Cas’s voice is quiet.

 

Dean nods, very wary of this conversation now that he knows it’s big enough that Cas can lose focus and fucking _drop them_.

 

“What… what do you want to know?”

 

Cas sounds strange, almost strained. But Dean is dying to know. He’ll stop if it gets too much for the guy, of course, but Cas _asked_. “How long did it take you to find me?”

 

“In Hell time?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Forty years.”

 

Dean balks at this information. “What?! But… that’s how long I was…”

 

“I know, Dean.” Castiel replies. “As soon as the Angels heard that the Righteous Man was in Hell, we knew it was just a matter of time before the first seal was broken. We…" Cas pauses, pursing his lips. "... _I_ insisted we begin the search immediately.”

 

“Just you?”

 

“I was surprised at the time, that nobody else demanded it.” Castiel says, as Dean rakes his gaze over the expanse of Castiel’s wings once again, marvelling at them for having led armies, for winning countless battles, for saving his worthless soul. “But of course… what I didn't know was that many of the angels wanted the seal to be broken. I understand it now.”

 

“Of course. They wanted me to break. So that the world could end.” Dean grimaces. “Gotta love Angels." Dean pauses, looking up at his friend, quirking a smile. "‘Cept you, Cas. You’re one of the good guys.”

 

Castiel throws him a rare smile.

 

“So,” Dean continues, clearing his throat, “no offense or anything, but why… did it take you forty years? I mean, is it gonna take forty years to find Adam?”

 

Castiel shakes his head. “I shouldn’t think so. I know the way to the cage. It took me around a month to find Sam.” Dean waits for an explanation, eyebrows raised. “You have to understand, Dean. The first time I entered Hell was the first time _any Angel_ has penetrated its walls except for Lucifer. I knew nothing of its many layers, its traps – I had no idea how to get to you.”

 

“Did the demons…” Dean begins asking, but he doesn’t know how to end his question.

 

“Fight me? Capture me? Torture me?” Castiel finishes for him. “Many times. But I kept fighting. I knew time was running out.”

 

“And you just… kept going?” Dean asks, disbelieving. “For forty years?! Jeez, Cas, why didn’t you just give up?”

 

“I knew I had to find you.” Castiel says, when Dean had expected a rant about his moral duty, and his purpose as a soldier of Heaven. It leaves Dean a little stunned. “It all depended on you, I knew that. Even then.”

 

Dean doesn’t bring it up, because he’s not an asshole, but he remembers Cas saying he lost brothers and sisters in the search for Dean. Probably all of them that came in with him. He wants to ask Cas if it was worth it, in the end. But he doesn’t. He’s a little afraid of the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hope you're enjoying it so far. I will try and update as frequently as possible!


	4. The Third Layer: The Road of Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So just hold on to the light and believe in salvation,   
> And the rays of truth shall lead the road to redemption…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is particularly bad on the graphic depictions of gore thing, if that's something that troubles you. 
> 
> I really hope you're enjoying! I generally don't write 'adventure' style fics, so I'd love to hear your comments :)

“We’re here.” Castiel says, after what seems like at least week of flying, maybe more. Dean really can’t say. He closes his eyes in relief, almost wanting to cry.

 

 _Finally_.

 

Castiel soars downwards unexpectedly, which sends Dean's stomach freewheeling, habit making him cling to Cas like he's two years old. Castiel doesn't seem to mind or notice, he just focuses on depositing Dean on solid ground with a care and gentleness that actually makes Dean a little uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to deal with that kind of… niceness. It always seems to be around Cas that he gets this feeling too. Because Cas is always so ready to give up everything for a clap on the back from Dean’s hand.

 

God, he’s an asshole. When they get out of here, he’s throwing Cas a huge fuckin’ thank you party. Or maybe he’ll just get him wasted. Heh, yeah that could be pretty fun, actually.

 

“Dean? Are you alright?” Cas is standing before him, a troubled look on his face.

 

Dean realised he kind of spaced out there for a moment. He nods, smiling in reassurance. “Yeah. Thanks for the ride, man.”

 

He realises he’s still gripping Cas by the coat, and unfurls his fingers. His fists ache after being curled in the same position for so long.

 

“We’ve reached the third layer.”

 

Dean gulps, spinning round to look. Before him is the last thing he expected to see. A road. A fairly ordinary looking road, really. Well, it’s a dirt track more than anything. There are no road markings and there’s no tarmac, but it’s unmistakeably a road, leading into the distance, curving up into a brow which Dean can’t see beyond. The sky around it is night, but not like the sickening blackness that hovers above the lake behind them. Just a plain old road like the ones Dean drives down every day of the week in his baby. 

 

Yeah, he can do this one. 

 

“Alright, so what’s the deal here?” Dean asks Cas, knowing it can’t be as simple as just walking down the road, but hoping for that anyway.

 

“The Road of Redemption.” Cas states, looking out at it. “It is one mile long. You must walk over the bones of the damned, the forgotten, and those you have loved and lost.”

 

Dean stomach plummets to the floor. He says nothing for several, long moments, staring at him in horror. When he tries to speak, his voice is barely a whisper. “What?”

 

“The only way is onwards now, Dean.” Cas says quietly, seeming to sense his agitation.

 

Dean stares out at the road, cursing its deceptive plainness. How can he possibly do this? The bones of those he's loved and lost? He'll be tripping over them, the road will have to go on forever, what with all the suffering and death he's caused. He looks over at Cas quickly, searching for reassurance, for some kind of way out of this, but his friend's face is as passive and serious as ever. Though Dean thinks he can see sympathy hiding in those cerulean eyes.

 

He takes a deep breath, swallowing down the worst of his fears. He's shaking, but what else can is there to do? He has to go on. “Yeah.” He agrees, trying to sound confident even though his voice is small and hollow. “It’s just a mile, right? It’ll… end.”

 

“It will end, Dean.” Castiel reiterates firmly, and Dean almost feels the guy's hand brush his shoulder, but Cas must think better of it, because the touch never comes.

 

Dean takes a breath, and steps forwards, placing his foot on the edge of the dirt road. The heat from the second layer seems to slip away, and for now, Dean finds himself cocooned in a place devoid of temperature, of feeling, of anything but the sure thought in his mind that he must continue forwards.

 

He takes the first step, continuing at a steady pace, and trying hard not to look down. His heart jackhammers inside of him, and he can feel the anxiety clawing at his lungs, trying to choke his breaths away. Castiel walks beside him, stoic and silent, but Dean is so, so glad.

 

It’s just after they descend the first hill that Dean hears it. A sickening, stomach curdling crunch. He feels the crumbling beneath his feet; he can’t help it, he has to look down. It’s an arm, Dean sees, bile rising in his throat, the flesh is still on, mostly, and as he follows it with his eyes, he sees the face.

 

“M-mom?” Dean says, his voice small. At the sound of his voice piercing the silent air, Mary Winchester’s eyelids blink open, revealing bloodshot, blinded eyes.

 

“Dean…baby?”

 

Dean gasps, realising his boot is still on her arm, having snapped the bone. He removes it at once, aghast. “Mom, what are you… no! You’re not supposed to be here-”

 

“It’s not your mother, Dean.”

 

Dean looks away from Mary reluctantly, half bent towards her, hand almost reaching out. Castiel’s face is wise, knowing, and at once Dean knows his words are the truth. But he can’t just… leave her. He looks back down to where Mary lies, and almost vomits.

 

Gone is her blonde wavy hair, her white dress, her full lips. Instead, there lies a corpse, skin rotted until it’s yellowed, chalky, sunken into the bones of the skeleton. Its mouth is a perverse smile, its decayed stomach ripped open, broken arm nothing but dust where Dean has crushed the bone.

 

The smell hits him in a tsunami wave, making him retch, keel over, crawl away however he can. Tears gather in his ducts but he manages to move, only to find his hands and knees cracking yet more bones underneath him.

 

He tries not to look, tries to just continue, but he can’t help it. He cries out at the sight of Jo, her slight, skinny frame broken apart by Dean’s clumsy weight on top of her. His hand has pushed through her chest cavity, and he can feel her beating heart. Wait… beating heart? That’s not right.

 

“Jo!”

 

She coughs, blood pouring from her mouth, looking up at Dean with betrayal in her eyes. “Dean? It hurts… don’t let me die again. Not like the first time.”

 

“Fuck!” Dean cries, standing up in horror, trying to wipe away some of the blood on his hands. “Jo, I’m sorry-”

 

Castiel clamps a hand down on his arm, and Dean turns to him, clutching his shoulders. “Cas, she’s alive, we have to-”

 

“No, Dean.” Cas cuts him off, his voice sure. “Joanna Harvelle is not alive. She is in Heaven. I’ve seen her there myself.”

 

Dean tries to breathe. He repeats Cas’s words in his mind. He turns back to Jo, finding her nothing but a mess of guts, bone and dust.

 

This time he does hurl, throwing up stuff that he can’t identify. Stuff that looks like goddamn flubber, like ash, like blood. He ignores the burn it leaves in his throat, and stumbles forwards, taking bigger steps this time to try and make this go faster.

 

He starts to jog a little, wondering whether if he just doesn’t look, doesn’t let himself, he can make it through without encountering any more. At that exact moment he trips over something, something that breaks audibly, splintering into pieces. He grazes his knee as he lands on the dirt, and it stings like a motherfucker, but still he rolls over to face what he has done.

 

Oh fuck it all, he thinks, tears he doesn’t remember crying dripping from his cheeks. It’s Bela. This is worse, he thinks, it’s worse because she looks as fucking stunning as she always did. She’s wearing a long, dark blue dress, though one of her legs has been broken. It’s at a strange angle – it must be the one Dean tripped over. There’s blood pouring out from underneath the folds of her skirt.

 

Dean doesn’t even have to say anything this time. Bela just wakes, choking on her own blood, deep gashes appearing down her bare arms, like those a Hell Hound would claw into her. She turns her head to face him.

 

“Y-you didn’t prot-tect me from the real monster, Dean.” She gurgles, her eyes starting to drip with crimson tears. “So I had to do it myself. And then you let me die for it.”

 

Dean cries for her, clutching his knees to his chest. He deserves this, he deserves to stay right here beside her and rot with her in this place. He feels a familiar hand on his back, but this time he tries to shrug it off. Cas doesn’t get the message, so Dean turns to him, looking deep into his eyes and getting ready to tell him exactly how much of a worthless prick Dean Winchester really is, and how his bravery to rescue him from the pit never helped a damn thing- and then the sides of Cas’s mouth start to split.

 

He looks like the damn Joker, and Dean is so close to it happening he has to choke back a yell. Cas starts unfurling his wings, but they’re nothing like what they once were - now they’re horrifying, petrified branches, featherless and coal black. Huge, jagged great splinters; Dean watches, horrified, as they crumble before his eyes. He watches Cas sink to the ground, helpless, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him, only to feel Cas’s bones break apart in his fingers, rattling around inside of him like a sack of pennies.

 

“No! No, Cas, please, not you. I can’t do this without you, I can’t do any of it without you, Cas, please.” Dean clasps Cas to his chest, not caring as he feels blood soaking his clothes, as Cas crumbles in his grip. “You can’t die, Cas, I need you, please. Stay with me, Cas, stay with me, don’t-”

 

A familiar arm slips around his shoulders, and Dean starts, not knowing who it could possibly be. He finds himself, tear-streaked and confused, somehow looking into the face of the Angel he has cradled in his arms.

 

“I am fine, Dean.” Cas says, his voice gentle.

 

Tears slip relentlessly down Dean’s cheeks. He doesn't look down, doesn’t want to see the shell of the Angel he’s holding. This fucking place made him think he was going to lose this, that he would have to carry on, forever, without Cas by his side. He doesn’t even think about it, he just drags Cas - the real Cas - into an embrace. It’s awkward as fuck, but Cas settles into it readily, smoothing his hands over Dean’s back, letting him weep into his coat.

 

“I can’t go on, Cas.” Dean says through gritted teeth. “I can’t do it.”

 

“You must.” Castiel tells him. “If you try and turn back, you will never be able to leave.”

 

Dean says nothing. He feels so broken. He knows the truth. This is a place he would never get out of anyway. He can’t make it through seeing everyone he feels responsible for the death of. It will kill him. He’ll stay here forever.

 

Castiel seems to hear this somehow, because he stands, pulling Dean with him. He takes Dean’s face in his, wiping away a tear with his thumb like it’s nothing, waiting until Dean finds the strength to look into his eyes.

 

“Dean, do not look away from my face.”

 

And yeah, no problem there, Dean thinks. He has absolutely no desire to look anywhere else. He feels Cas lift him into the air, above everything else, and even though he’s had days of flying in Cas’s arms, and not that long ago he might’ve sworn to never want it again, now it feels like he never wants to land.

 

Dean tries not to look down as Cas flies them the rest of the mile, he truly does. But he catches one last glimpse, and really, that’s all it takes. He sees plaid, he sees stupid, too-long hair, and a hand reaching toward him, desperate and scared.

 

“Dean? Dean! Don’t leave me here!” Sam pleads after him, and Dean just breaks apart, burying his head in stupid, beige trenchcoat as Cas flies them away.

 

* * *

 

 

This time, Cas’s landing is not so gentle. At first, Dean thinks it’s because Cas is angry with him for wimping out back there. He can understand that. He steels himself for a fight, for a Heavenly telling off, Hell, even a punch, but none comes. Instead, his Angel falls to his knees, gasping, panting.

 

“Cas?!” Dean asks, alarmed, kneeling down next to him, slipping an arm around his shoulders. “Cas, what is it? What’s wrong?”

 

Dean can only watch in horror as Cas’s wings shimmer, flicker, and then dissolve into nothing, right before his eyes.

 

“My grace. It’s gone.” Castiel says. Dean swallows, trying to process that information.

 

“Cas, did you… did you use the last of it getting us out of there?”

 

Cas seems uncertain about how to respond for a moment, studying Dean’s face, but eventually he nods.

 

“Shit.” Dean curses, blaming himself. “Cas, I’m so sorry, man, I-”

 

“It’s alright Dean.” Castiel assures him. “I understand. I too remember crossing the third layer the first time. I barely… Well, I remember it was difficult.”

 

Dean kind of hates himself for wanting to know, but God help him, he does, and if he doesn’t ask now, there isn’t likely going to be another time to bring it up.

 

“Who’s bones did you have to walk across, Cas?”

 

Cas drops his eyes, clearly troubled by the memory. “Time… it’s different for Angels. I may not have known exactly what was going to happen in the future, because there are always so many possibilities, based on countless decisions, but I always knew, no matter what happened, that you and I would… that you would become extremely important to me, Dean.”

 

Dean doesn’t really know what this has to do with anything, but he listens nonetheless. He wonders how important he really is to Cas. He hasn’t really considered it before, but for Cas to stop fighting a Heavenly war in order to come and help Dean with this… he’s gotta be somewhere high up on Cas’s list.

 

“So, even back then, before I knew you properly, you were still…” Cas seems to want to find the right wording. “…my friend”

 

Realisation dawns on Dean, and it sends his mind freewheeling a little. “The bones you walked over… they were mine?”

 

“Yes.” Castiel confirms. “I’ve lived millions of years, fought countless battles, and stopped the end of the world. Yet I still hear the crunch of Dean Winchester’s bones like it were yesterday.”

 

Castiel smiles then, sadly, aiming it at Dean, who is basically speechless. What does someone even say to that? Well, he supposes it’s not like he doesn’t get it. He’ll be remembering Cas breaking apart in his arms for the rest of his life too, probably. Cas gets to his feet then, a little shakily, Dean can’t help but notice.


	5. The Fourth Layer: The Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God help him, Dean remembers this one.

“Next stop?” He asks Cas, trying to lighten the mood at least a little, jeez.

 

“We must walk until we reach a cave entrance.” Cas says, and Dean feels a little better knowing that they have some walking time before they have to plunge into the next bit. He’s not going to recover from layer three for a long time.

 

Cas has dropped them where the road ends. Now it’s just kind of a barren wasteland in front of them. It’s dull, grey, endless seeming, and every few minutes they come across some large boulders, which Cas inspects for openings.

 

Cas has shed his trenchcoat now, and his suit jacket, and his tie. Apparently Dean was right about Cas becoming someone that experiences more human things as his Grace dwindled, but being right doesn’t make him feel any better about it. Sweat trickles from Cas’s hairline to his collarbone, and Dean tries not to watch it with his eyes every single time.

 

“Cas, I gotta ask you something.” Dean pants as they walk, wiping his forehead because it’s getting really friggin’ hot again, fast. “I kinda don’t wanna know the answer, but… if you lose your Grace the further you go into Hell, then how the fuck did you get me out the first time?”

 

Weirdly, Cas turns to Dean and smiles at him. Dean almost stops in his tracks; that’s certainly not the reaction he was expecting. “I always think that’s one of the saddest parts of my excursions here. The souls I retrieve not remembering our journeys out.”

 

Dean freezes, clamping a hand down on Cas’s shoulder so that he stops too. “Wait, you mean I…?”

 

“Fought your way out of Hell at my side, yes.” Cas shrugs, starting to walk again. “At least, until I got my Grace back. Then I flew us out.”

 

“But… wouldn’t it have taken months to get back out?” Dean asks, following Cas, incredulous at this information, trying hard to remember. He doesn't, not at all. All he remembers of his 'trip out' is a blinding white light, one that seemed to pierce through his very being, burning the Demon residue out from the inside.

 

“No. There is a way out of Hell that takes far less time. Crowley made it, I believe, or perhaps Lucifer.” Castiel thinks about this, head tilted. Dean's mouth falls open, and he tries hard to stay calm. “Either way, Crowley uses it now, as a secret escape hatch. Only very few demons know of its existence.”

 

Dean has to take a moment to breathe. He doesn't understand it, there is a disproportionate amount of anger inside of him at this information. He feels himself getting worked up, as though Cas has purposefully kept this information from him, tricked him. But he knows - of course he knows - that's ridiculous. 

 

Why is he so angry?

 

He tries to swallow it down as best he can, hoping his voice is relatively level. “Hold up, so you’re telling me there’s a way in and out of Hell that means not crossing over all the layers?!” 

 

“Yes.” Cas replies, and from the look on his face, he's noticed Dean's simmering rage. 

 

And Dean can't help himself. He snaps. “Why the Hell aren’t we doing that, man?!”

 

He can feel the blood boiling in his veins. He's practically livid, and that's nonsensical. He wants to yell at Cas for keeping this to himself, for forcing Dean to cross over the bodies of those he loves most, to hear the sounds of their shattering bones. 

 

Castiel looks at Dean with one eyebrow raised, a slightly amused tilt to his lips. Dean wants to punch the smirk right off of him. “You would have had us enter Hades through the King of Hell’s own _personal_ , no doubt heavily guarded entrance?”

 

Dean opens his mouth to retort, feeling the rage in him threaten to boil over, and then, as Cas's words sink in, begin to subside. He pauses, letting himself cool down a little. “Yeah, okay, you have a point. So how are we gonna get out that way, then?”

 

“Oh, we have the element of surprise on our side, provided we only leave that way.” Castiel says, continuing forwards.

 

“Oh, right!” Says Dean sarcastically, stopping in his tracks again. He can't fucking believe his ears. Okay, this is taking the piss now - has Cas even thought this through? The lividity bubbles up again, stronger this time, and Dean's hands curl into fists. "So we’ve gotta slice through all the guard-demons still, but we’ll have the ‘element of surprise’?!” Dean asks, the incredulity in his voice becoming a shout now. “Great plan, Cas, really!”

 

For all his bravado, Dean just isn’t prepared for it when Castiel rounds on him. In two seconds flat he’s pressed up against a boulder, Cas’s hand fisted in his shirt, their faces so close they’re practically kissing. Except that Cas looks like he’d much rather be murdering Dean right now. Huh, Dean thinks, his eyes wide with surprise, so maybe he's not the only one currently having problems dealing with anger issues.

 

“Dean, how far would you have gotten so far without me?” Castiel practically hisses, and Dean can’t help but notice that even without his Grace, the dude is fucking terrifying. He quickly feels his body surrendering, sensing that this is a fight he would damn well lose, and one he shouldn't have even picked to begin with. The rage is near gone now, and Dean is left with just apologies, mild fear, and a slight flicker of something... hotter. “I could have left you in the last layer to die amongst those you wrongly feel responsible for killing, but I didn’t do that.”

 

“I know,” Dean starts to say, “I’m sorry, Cas-”

 

“Shut up.” Cas barks. “This whole stupid, reckless plan was your idea Dean Winchester, and the one thing you did correctly was coaxing me into helping you. Because otherwise, Dean, you would die.”

 

“Cas, I-”

 

“I warned you, Dean." Cas interrupts him. "I told you I could not promise our safe return.” Castiel says, his voice now a growl. It's doing something to Dean, something that keeps drawing his gaze to that pastel pink mouth, spitting out harsh words. “But if you think,” Castiel steps even closer somehow; their lips nearly brush and Dean tries in vain to hide what he would never admit is basically a whimper, “that means I am going to leave you here, under any circumstances… if you think there is any chance in Hell that I won’t get you out of here, you’re wrong. I’ve pulled you out of here once Dean Winchester, and if I have to shove you out the door, I will damn well do it again.”

 

Dean is barely breathing. God, what is happening to him? His whole body feels like it’s on fire, and not just from the merciless heat. Castiel’s hand is pressed against his chest now, the heat of it practically burning. Castiel’s eyes bore into his, never straying, and Dean can’t help thinking about the taste of Cas’s lips, so fucking close to him, so easy for him to kiss.

 

This might be the world’s most inappropriate time to get a boner, he thinks, but his body doesn’t seem to care. The things he wants from Cas, the things he wants Cas to do to him right now, those thoughts are crawling, sordid and unrestricted into his filthy mind. It’s all he can do to try and push Cas away.

 

Cas, of course, doesn’t budge an inch – how is he still so strong while Graceless?

 

“Why would you do that for me, Cas?” Dean asks, helplessly pinned, feeling the arousal twisting inside of him, curling around his every nerve and muscle until it’s all he can think about.

 

Castiel actually growls at this question, removing his hand from Dean’s chest and pressing himself flush against Dean instead. Dean feels heat flood his cheeks because Cas can definitely feel that he’s hard right now, but if anything that just turns him on more.

 

“You know the answer.” Cas utters, hands gripping Dean’s sides so suddenly Dean jumps.

 

And that’s it, Dean can’t take it, can’t resist anymore. He breaks, smashing his lips into Cas’s, winding arms round him, pulling him close. He fists the back of Cas’s shirt, moaning at the feeling of Cas kissing him back, of the Angel opening up for him, at the sharp, sweet taste of his tongue.

 

Apparently Cas still has some of his super-strength, because he manhandles Dean with ease, keeping him pinned there against the rock and grinding into him, Dean’s cry lost between their frantic mouths. He feels Cas clawing at his jeans, rucking up his t-shirt to get a hold of the zipper. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind there’s a thought that this is actually a little weird, that Cas is a goddamn _Angel,_ and shouldn’t be doing anything anywhere near this filthy- but then Cas slips his hand into Dean’s underwear, and nothing else even remotely matters.

 

Dean arches his head back, hitting the wall of rock behind him, and Cas’s long, perfect fingers wrap around the length of him, freeing him from the confines of his jeans. Cas leans forwards to kiss Dean’s neck right before he starts to move his hand, and the combination sends shockwaves ricocheting through Dean, has him burying his fingers into Cas’s mess of beautiful black hair.

 

Cas’s hand starts to speed up jacking him, and then Dean feels teeth scraping over his pulse, feels Cas sucking at the skin, leaving marks, claiming him. Dean moans, whispers Cas’s name again and again until it’s not a whisper anymore, until he’s nearly shouting it. He feels Cas’s thumb slipping over his frenulum, soft and certainly well-aware of what he’s doing, because at that moment Dean shouts, bucking his hips forwards into Cas’s fist, and then he’s coming, so hard it leaves him weak, shooting his load all over the poor guy, though Cas looks decidedly unfazed by it.

 

If anything, the look in Cas’s eyes is hungry, soaking up Dean’s reaction as he rides through his orgasm, every nerve in his body singing.

 

Dean’s barely upright again when Cas kisses him, hard and slow, taking advantage of the fact Dean is soft and pliant now. Cas opens Dean’s mouth with his, and Dean just lets himself be kissed, moaning at the feel of something this dirty, at letting his own Angel just fuck him with his tongue.

 

All at once, Dean knows he needs Cas, feels the need burning within his very soul, so with all his might, he pushes against the Angel’s shoulders. Cas doesn’t move of course, but he seems to understand that Dean wants freedom, because he stops kissing him, and then lets go. Dean is quick to move, darting out from where Cas had him, and swapping positions, pushing Cas against the rock now.

 

Dean wastes no time, he untucks Cas’s shirt and gets his belt and fly open in record time; Cas is just watching him, staring, his mouth reddened and his eyes lidded, filled with want. It makes Dean shudder.

 

When Dean fits his hand inside Cas’s pants, the Angel whines, bucking his hips forwards, and Dean just swoops in, capturing his mouth in a kiss. He grips Cas’s length, pulling it free of its trappings, and kisses up Cas’s jaw, along to his ear, mouthing at the lobe, biting at it until Cas gasps.

 

He really hopes he manages to catch the Angel off-guard when he drops suddenly to his knees. He keeps one hand wrapped around the base, and leans forward to plant a kiss against the tip of Cas’s dick, savouring it when the Angel shivers and moans softly. This is by no means Dean’s first time giving head, so he knows how to make Cas really fall apart, but the thing is… he doesn’t think he can _wait_. He laps softly at the head with his tongue, earning little breathy gasps out of Cas, ones that he feels crawl under his skin, ready to be savoured later.

 

After what feels like too long, he slips his mouth around Cas, sinking down low, as far as he can, feeling it when Cas’s dick hits the back of his throat and swallowing, knowing exactly how that feels. Cas is muttering words Dean doesn’t recognise, mostly Enochian, he thinks, though he thinks he hears his name occasionally.

 

If anything, it spurs Dean on, and he sucks hard, hearing Cas’s answering cry, and deciding to move. He goes slowly at first, tongue gently flicking against the underside; Cas’s hands slide into Dean’s hair. Dean sucks again and this time Cas bucks towards him, making him choke a little, but he doesn’t care, all he can think about is how hot it is. He swallows some of the juices collected in his mouth, moving faster now, humming his approval of this because it’s fucking hot, and he would literally do this forever if he could.

 

He wants to feel Cas come, wants to taste every part of him – why the Hell have they never done this before? When they get out of here, Dean’s going to fuck him senseless, or the other way around, it doesn’t matter, all that will matter is the slide of their naked bodies, the taste of each other on their tongues.

 

Cas cries out loudly then, gripping Dean’s hair tightly. Dean doesn’t know what he did to elicit that reaction, but by the sounds of things Cas is close, so he speeds up further, giving it everything he’s got – and just like that, Cas cries out, brokenly, thrusting into Dean, his come spilling into Dean’s mouth, pouring down his throat as he swallows again and again, wanting every last drop.

 

It’s with reluctance that Dean stands again, wanting to do that over and over until both of them are utterly spent, unable to move, but there’s a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that they are in the middle of something.

 

“Dean…” Castiel says, sounding weak, and Dean grins at him, proud of himself. “L-lust.”

 

“You’re tellin’ me.” Dean says, still smiling, crowding into Cas’s personal space.

 

“No, Dean,” Cas says, and he sounds vaguely serious, so Dean listens as best he can. “Lust… it’s clouding our senses. Do you also have the overwhelming urge to- to do that… forever?”

 

Dean frowns. Well, yeah but… “Oh, great. So we’re under a Demon’s whammy right now?”

 

Dean is frustrated, and really quite pissed off. He’s pretty fucking sure he’s still going to want to jump Cas’s bones once they get out of Hell, but now it seems pretty likely that Cas’s reciprocation only counts while he’s A, Graceless, and B, under Lust’s influence.

 

“Not the Demon.” Cas says, zipping up his fly without looking at Dean. Oh, right Dean thinks, he should probably do that too. “Lust’s influence is ingrained into Hell, along with Wrath, Greed, and all the other sins. If we are feeling its urges, we must be very near the next layer.”

 

Dean looks at Cas long and hard, trying and trying not to see someone he just wants to rip the clothes off of and fuck until he’s screaming. It doesn’t work. He steps a little closer to Cas, trying his luck one last time.

 

“What if we, uh, were just to give in one more time?” Dean asks innocently, and for the briefest of moments, Cas looks like he’s going to give in, grab Dean and pin him somewhere again, but he looks away, smiling a little.

 

“We would die, Dean.” Castiel answers. “Though I’m flattered.”

 

“Really? We’d fuck ourselves to death?” Dean huffs an impressed laugh. “S’not a bad way to go.”

 

Castiel turns back to Dean, eyebrows raised. “You’d be okay with a death caused by copulating with an Angel of the Lord in depths of Hell?”

 

Dean’s brow furrows. “Yeah, when you put it like that I guess it doesn’t sound so great. So where’s this fourth layer then?”

 

“I think,” Castiel says, and for some reason he looks exasperated with himself, “it’s probably right here.”

 

Dean frowns at him, and watches as Cas walks around to the other side of the boulder both of them were pressed against moments ago. A few seconds pass where Dean attempts to get it together, to push inappropriate thoughts of his best friend away for another time, and then Dean follows him. Sure enough, a large, gloomy looking opening sits in the middle of the few boulders, ominous and definitely some kind of doorway.

 

“Well, that’s ironic.” Dean says. “Okay, well, you first by all means.”

 

“Dean.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m going to warn you now.”

 

“What?”

 

“This is the layer where I found you.”

 

* * *

 

 

It becomes quickly apparent that what lies beyond the cave entrance is a long, sickeningly dark and empty-looking tunnel. Whether the tunnel is actually empty is anybody’s guess however, thinks Dean warily, keeping his hand tightly around the hilt of his blade as he peers into the darkness.

 

“So…” Dean murmurs, quietly, to Cas beside him, barely distinguishable in the extremely low light. He tries to keep his tone nonchalant, even though he’s pretty sure Cas can hear his heart thumping wildly, clearly petrified. “…Does this mean I’m gonna start recognisin’ this dump soon?”

 

“It is likely that you will remember much about your time here, yes.” Cas replies, and Dean’s worst fears are confirmed. He tries not to let the horror show on his face. “It is different though, this time. You must remember that. You are not the same beaten down soul who dwelled here for all those years.”

 

Dean doesn’t respond. He wonders privately if any of that is true. He feels sometimes like the same monster that crawled out of the pit all that time ago. Sure, he’s spent time away from here, but what the Hell is coming back going to do to his marred soul?

 

“We are getting close.” Castiel announces, his voice solemn, and Dean tries to steel himself.

 

In truth, he only remembers snippets from Hell. It’s difficult – not like conjuring memories from Earth. In Hell, all the memories come in the form of sensations: pain burning through him, searing his skin, the stench of rotting flesh, the sickening noise of someone’s choked gurgles as they drown in their own blood.

 

If you asked Dean what Hell looks like though, based on when he was trapped down there, he probably couldn’t tell you. All he remembers is darkness, fear, the true, Demonic face of Alastair, leering at him as he carved over and over into Dean’s body, chipping away at his humanity piece by piece…

 

“Dean?” Cas is in front of him, his eyes bright, like two orbs in the gloom, the rest of him in shadow. Dean is distracted. He can feel the heat of Cas’s body just a few inches from him. Cas’s hand is on his shoulder, right where he left his mark. “Are you alright?”

 

Belatedly, Dean realises that he’s stopped walking. That’s why Cas is concerned. That’s why he’s in front of Dean now, staring into his eyes.

 

“Yeah,” he says at length, looking over at Cas’s hand on his shoulder, unable to take his eyes off of it, “sorry, I was just…”

 

“Afraid.” Cas finishes, and Dean tries to scowl at him, but he’s pretty sure Cas can’t see in the low light. “It’s not you, Dean. It’s Hell, the fourth layer, it’s playing off your emotions, heightening them, as it did… a while ago. With both of us, back there.”

 

Dean pauses, trying to comprehend what Cas is saying. He tries hard not to focus on the moment of weakness Cas is referring to that they both shared. “You mean like, this is another deadly sin affecting me?”

 

“Yes. Fear.”

 

“Fear?” Dean repeats, disbelieving. “Hey, I’m no Bible nut, but even I know that’s not one of the seven.”

 

Cas sighs, getting impatient again, though it only serves to stoke the fires of want still alight in Dean’s belly, daring him even now to reach out and claim Cas, to seal their mouths together again and join, to move together, until they’re burnt out, husks of what they were.

 

“What humans call the Seven Deadly Sins are actually only the names of the Demons who represent them. Or did, until the Demon Ruby killed Pride, Gluttony and Greed.” Castiel explains hurriedly, his wide eyes darting about every so often before coming back to rest on Dean’s. “In reality, there are many more sins, all woven into Hell's atmosphere, each extremely powerful, and all will increase their effect on us as we make our way through the layers.”

 

“Fan-freakin-tastic.” Dean says, blowing air upwards. He’s sweating pretty profusely by this point, and it sucks that he has to keep the exertion up, to keep moving forwards. Cas is right too, he’s absolutely petrified right now, way more than he would normally be he’s sure. “So, I just gotta fight it? Work through the fear?”

 

“Essentially, yes.” Castiel confirms, turning from him. “Along with fighting all the other sins trying to prevent us from continuing of course.”

 

With that, Castiel strides forward again, evidently determined, demonstrating his own ability to fend off thoughts of failure, anger, sex… Dean seems to be having particular trouble with that last one, he thinks miserably, trying in vain to make out the image of Cas’s form stepping into the dark.

 

“Of course.” Dean mutters before swallowing as much of the Fear as he can, and following.

 

* * *

 

 

The moment they emerge from the mouth of the tunnel, Dean recognises his surroundings. He almost drops to the floor, almost throws up again, almost begs Cas to turn back – anything but crossing this place.

 

Cas looks over at him pityingly, sensing the fear, the disgust, the horror in Dean’s soul, but he doesn’t move to comfort him. Perhaps he’s too afraid that the precarious balance of his emotions, stirred by the sins pressing from all sides, might dislodge themselves. He’s probably afraid of what he will do to Dean.

 

For now, in Dean’s soul at least, the feelings of Rage and Lust have quietened, leaving him only with Fear, and an overwhelming urge to sink down, to lay curled in a ball, to never move again. That must be Sloth, he reasons. Or Hell, maybe it’s still just Fear, making him too terrified to continue.

 

“Where’s the next layer, Cas?” Dean asks, his voice quiet because there are Demons fucking everywhere here, though none of them seem to pay he or Cas any attention. They’re all… preoccupied.

 

“Straight ahead.” Cas answers, sounding as though he wishes his answer were different.

 

Dean nods, trying in vain to steel himself. But he’ll never be ready to do this, not really. Nevertheless, he takes a first step into the nothingness all around, sure that he won’t fall through what seems like an empty, hollow void because he’s been here before.

 

He knows.

 

There is no floor here, Dean remembers, even as he steps across what feels like solid ground beneath his feet. There’s no up or down, no depth or height, there are no windows or walls. It’s just a chasm, a wide pit of despair, which he supposes is apt, given that this is the name of this layer: The Pit.

 

Enormous, rusted and thick steel chains crisscross through the air in all directions, great, jagged hooks at the end of them, which dig into the flesh of screaming, writhing, mutilated souls. Dean wishes his memories weren't so vivid. He wishes he didn't remember the horrifying snag of the cold, unforgiving metal against his skin. Those chains have pulled his very flesh apart before, but that’s practically merciful compared to what the Demons do to you if they decide to play with you, strung up there for them, unable to move an inch.

 

Dean can feel Cas by his side as he walks, slowly, through the masses of human souls, all pinned up on the rack, secured by the chains. He watches, unable to tear his eyes away, as what looks like a little blonde girl, skinny, and wearing a pink summer tee with shorts, digs her bare hands into the stomach of a screaming man, her fingers clawing at the innards until he’s gutted, but still very much alive.

 

There is no death in this place.

 

“Dean…” Cas whispers urgently, and Dean realises with frustration that he’s stopped again, to stare at the display before him.

 

He turns to Cas, eyes filled with pain, and then the young girl whips her head around, facing them. Dean reels back in shock, unprepared for what he sees. The girl’s face is monstrous, distorted, her eyes black hollows, skin rotting and peeling, her jaw slack and wide, rows of tiny sharp teeth just visible inside.

 

“Winchester?” The demon says, and it sounds confused, tilting it’s head eerily far to one side, the way only a monster would.

 

Dean doesn’t know what to do suddenly, he feels useless, stunned to silence by this one puny demon. Maybe it’s because it’s happening here, back in this place he hoped he’d never be again, the place he’s so used to being tortured, helpless.

 

The creature snarls, her fingers elongating into claws, and Dean sees she’s about to attack, but still he can’t make himself move. He flinches as it steps towards him, screeching, and then there’s the poetic sound of a knife plunging into flesh, the electric sizzle of a Demon’s life fluttering and extinguishing.

 

Dean opens his eyes, not realising he’d screwed them shut, just in time to watch Cas pull his Angel blade out of the demon, to watch her slump to the floor.

 

Dean doesn’t know what to say. Luckily, Cas just gives him a wary look, as though conveying what a close fucking call that was, and inclines his head, saying they should continue on.

 

Dean tries to follow Cas. He tells himself not to look back. He can feel the darkness brewing inside of him now that the Demon is gone, now that the soul she tortured is left free, available, so damn close…

 

“Hey!” A shudder runs down Dean’s back as the guy, the one currently spilling his guts out of himself, chained up on the rack, calls out to him. “P-please, you gotta help me! You’re not one of them are you? Please, I’m begging you, I’m not supposed to be here, I’m-”

 

“Dean!” Cas tries to grab hold of him, to call him back as Dean turns on his heel, stalking over to the guy, and cutting off his pleas with a firm hand around his neck.

 

“You’re what?” Dean asks, sneering at the guy’s pathetic expression, feeling his own fingers tightening around the guy’s throat, listening out for those sweet choking noises that signify the airway being cut off. “You’re innocent, is that what you were gonna say?”

 

“Dean, stop!” Cas cries, grabbing hold of his arm, trying hard to tug him off. Dean just bats him away, annoyed.

 

This asshole in front of him has the nerve, even after all the time he’s been here already, to try and bargain his escape? Dean can feel the disgust, the fury boiling in his veins; the thought of the many atrocities this piece of crap could have pulled in his putrid little life to warrant a ticket down here, it’s making Dean’s skin crawl.

 

“What were you in life, then huh?” Dean asks the guy, and he doesn’t quite know when he reached for his own knife, but now the blade is pressing lightly over the lid of one of the dude’s eyes and he’s _trembling._ Dean tries and fails not to feel the pleasure course through him at the sight. “A child molester? A murderer?" Dean cocks an eyebrow. "A lawyer?”

 

Dean cracks a smile at his own joke. He can hear Cas behind him, vaguely, saying something over and over, sometimes clawing at Dean, trying to get him to turn around. He ignores the Angel, because this guy needs to pay.

 

Hell, he’s not even answering Dean’s question - and that’s just rude.

 

So Dean plunges the knife forwards, relishing the squelch of the blade piercing his eyeball, the blood that spurts out, just like in the movies, spraying over Dean’s face as the dude just screams and screams.

 

“Dean!” Cas manages to yank him backwards this time, and in moments he’s spun around, looking into two impossibly deep blue eyes. “Dean, stop! This is not you. You have to stop.”

 

It takes a few seconds, possibly longer, but eventually Dean returns to himself. He looks down at his hands, balled into fists, one clasping the knife so tightly he thinks he might have to break his fingers to free it.

 

But then Cas’s hand is upon his, uncurling his fingers one by one, not seeming to care about soaking his own hands in the blood that covers Dean’s. At last, Dean’s hand is open, and the knife falls from his grip.

 

Then he throws up. He doesn’t have anything left by this point. He throws up acid, bile, and more of that black stuff he doesn’t want to identify. Part of him wonders if it’s the remnants of his transition into Demonhood last time he was here.

 

Cas just waits for him, a hand on his shoulder again, a reminder of his strong, sure presence. How can the guy even stand to be around him right now? Dean Winchester is fucking sick, he’s making himself hurl. He deserves nothing, no one, he deserves to be left in this place until he’s nothing more than the black tar that is clearly contaminating his soul.

 

“We need to move on, Dean. They’ve begun to notice.”

 

At length, Dean stands, wiping his mouth, picking up his knife as he straightens. He takes a deep breath, not turning to Cas this time. He stares down at the blood on his blade. The guy he stabbed is still wailing and crying behind them, Dean can hear it.

 

And he still has an itch to plunge the knife in again.

 

No ‘righteous man’ would feel that way. Cas is better off alone.

 

“You go.” Dean says, and though he can’t see it, he feels the way Cas stares at him, eyes bulging with incredulity. “I’m not coming.”

 

“Is that a joke?” Castiel asks, and to his credit, he gets a smile out of Dean, because he sounds as though he’s genuinely asking.

 

“Not a joke, Cas.” Dean says, and for the first time, he looks around himself, noticing with interest that there are indeed several freaky-faced demons looking their way, though none of them make any sort of move. “You saw what I just did. What I just became. I belong here.”

 

“No.” Castiel says, his voice low and certain. Dean wishes Cas’s gravelly tones were enough to dissuade him from this train of thought. “You belong on Earth. With Sam, with Bobby. With me.”

 

“I belong in the pits of Hell, Cas!” Dean cries suddenly, feeling the anger crescendo inside of him again. He swivels, catching Cas’s eye this time, not realising he’s brandishing the knife until he sees Cas’s gaze fixated on it. “I’m a monster, a Demon protégée! I can try and kid myself till the cows come home, but that’s who I am at my core. So just leave me here. God knows why you even tried to save me in the first place.”

 

All of a sudden Cas grabs hold of him, his fingers digging sharply into Dean’s shoulders, holding him in place as he crowds in close. “I saved you because you deserved it, Dean. If I didn’t think you were worth the trouble, believe me I would not have hesitated to leave you to rot here.”

 

For some reason, Dean flinches at these words, somehow sensing the truth behind them. Cas might act soft around Dean at times, but as this mission keeps reminding Dean, Cas is actually a terrifying, infinitely powerful superbeing. He can sense Dean’s soul, he’s said it before, he can read minds, and he fought his way through Hell to get to Dean for forty years.

 

There are no doubts in Dean’s mind that if Cas had seen Dean’s soul as poisonous, evil or even slightly less than worth his trouble, Dean would not have made it out in Cas's arms.

 

“Cas, I’m scared, man.” Dean admits, his chest puffing out with how hard he’s breathing. “I’m so fucking scared of myself here.”

 

“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t also.” Cas says, pretty unhelpfully, Dean thinks. “I’m scared you’ll find a way to let Hell trap you here.”

 

It’s not what Dean was expecting exactly, and his heart suddenly aches for Cas. To be so hung up on someone so worthless, so much less than Cas makes him out to be… it’s gotta really fucking suck. But it at least means Dean has to try. For Cas, he has to try and make it through this.

 

The poor Angel really didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he pulled him out the first time, Dean thinks.

 

“I’m right behind you.” Dean whispers eventually, and Cas’s look of relief is so beautiful it makes Dean want to cry.

 

He assumes it’s the adrenaline, alongside a pretty fucking sizeable chick-flick moment that makes Cas lean forwards and press his lips against Dean’s. That, and all the Lust-with-a-capital-L that this layer is supposedly swimming in. He goes with it though, eyes closing and everything the moment Cas’s lips touch his, but the kiss is so chaste, so barely a kiss at all, that Dean doesn’t even have the chance to do anything more.

 

It’s probably a good thing that Cas has the strength to keep it brief, because even from that Dean can feel the familiar sensation of his blood rushing south, the tightening in his pants.

 

How is Cas coping so well? Dean can’t help but wonder as he follows the guy past staring Demonic eyes, still eerily doing nothing about their presence here. Dean had thought he was strong willed, but he’s falling apart in this place. So far he’s managed to succumb to four separate sins: Lust, Wrath, Fear and what he’s classifying as Bloodlust. He almost wants to laugh at himself when he feels annoyance prickle his skin from the way some of the black-eyed bitches are eyeing Cas as he walks by.

 

Envy, that’s all he needs right now. The quicker they get out of here the better.

 

It’s distracting, to say the least, being so totally outnumbered by Demons, yet none of them fighting. None of them are doing anything except what they’re supposed to be – torturing, maiming, and procuring screams from the damned.

 

Dean and Cas march past soul after soul, trying to keep their focus, to lay low, but it’s so difficult. The bloodcurdling howls won’t leave Dean’s ears for the rest of his days, Dean is sure.

 

Dean doesn’t let himself look at the instruments the Demons use. He’s frightened that he’ll recognise them, that he’ll remember holding them in his own hands.

 

Worse, he’s frightened he’ll reach for them again.

 

He has to keep going. He can’t let himself succumb to this place. Cas got him out of here for a reason. To stay here now would be stupid. Jumping from the frying pan into the fiery pits once more.

 

But why are they just staring?

 

“Cas,” Dean hisses to the figure ahead of him, “why aren’t these Demons attacking?”

 

“I’m not sure.” Cas replies, clearly just as uneasy about it as Dean is. “If I had to guess, I’d say either they were afraid to hurt a Winchester, afraid to take on an Angel, or…”

 

Dean waits, eyes widening as Cas actually trails off. “…Or?!”

 

Cas sighs. “Or they’re sure we won’t make it out of here.”

 

Dean’s heart sinks. He knows what Cas really means. The Demons might well think that _he_ won’t make it out of here. They think he’s going to pick up another blade, come right back home. Heck, he almost did.

 

They keep walking in silence, the tension taut between them.

 

“No! No, please! Mommy!”

 

This solitary shriek rises above the others. Dean singles it out because of the voice. It’s a child’s voice. He stops dead in his tracks, searching for the source.

 

“Please, I didn’t mean it, please let me go!”

 

Dean has no idea where Cas is now, if he’s stopped as well, or if Dean is now on his own here. All he knows is he needs to find that child’s voice, needs to free the poor kid from this place – after all, what on earth could a child have done to warrant an eternity of torture in the pit?

 

He needs to free her now, the girl that this voice belongs to, to counter the dark, twisted urges roiling inside of him, begging him to carve and slice just as he did before. He needs to feel good again, needs to feel his own humanity, and nothing works to make a guy feel better about himself like saving an innocent.

 

At length, as he whirls and pushes through the chains, past snarling Demons who only watch him, cruel smiles on their twisted, gaping mouths, he finds her. A sweet, raven haired kid with big, brown doe eyes, set wide and terrified in her tanned skin. She’s struggling against her bonds, against the rusted chains that wrap around her waist, so tightly there are red marks where it digs into her small tummy, her shirt rucked up a short way.

 

There’s a Demon in front of her, a man, tall and military looking, hair in a perfect buzzcut. Dean can’t see his face, but he watches as the guy twirls a hammer in his fingers, tauntingly, pacing in front of her. The thought of this guy hurting the poor child with a blunt, brutal instrument, it’s making Dean’s skin crawl.

 

The things he wants to do to that Demon, especially when he notices the already broken bones jutting out of the girl’s skin, they are inhumane.

 

Without a second thought, Dean lunges forwards, taking the Demon by surprise, Ruby’s knife plunging so deeply into his back that the tip protrudes from his chest. Dean twists it, feeling cruel, watching the yellow light flicker and die behind the Demon’s eyes as he falls to the floor.

 

It takes Dean a few moments to get over the shock of the Demon’s face at his feet. The Demons here don’t look like he’s ever seen them. They appear to be in vessels at a first glance, but up close, their faces are like Angels describe – ugly and mutated, representations of their twisted souls. This might be their true forms, Dean supposes, resolving to ask Cas about it once they’re out of here, once they’re safe.

 

Speaking of which, Dean thinks, where is Cas? He’s about to turn, to scan for him, panicking a little, feeling his heart speed up, but then the girl speaks.

 

“I-is he gone?”

 

Dean turns to her, every thought except the sight of the girl’s tear and blood-stained face gone from his mind. He pockets his knife, walking to her without hesitation.

 

“Yeah, he’s gone.” Dean confirms, reaching towards the chains wrapped around her, trying to find a weak link. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

The girl whimpers as Dean’s fingers brush the angry, reddened skin of her stomach, and he recoils in horror, hating himself for hurting her.

 

“Please help me.” The girl sobs. “I miss my Mommy. Don’t let them hurt me again.”

 

Dean’s heart aches. He doesn’t know what to do. He circles the girl helplessly, looking for a way to break the chain, to release her, but there’s nothing. The chains don’t seem to be tied to anything – they stretch away far into the darkness. There are no hooks, no catches, and each link is as strong as the next.

 

She’s trapped.

 

“J-just,” Dean begins desperately, whispering to the crying girl, “hold on, okay? I’m gonna get you out.”

 

He has no idea how, though.

 

“Dean?”

 

Dean’s shoulders sag in relief. Cas. He’ll be able to help. Plus, thank the fucking Lord – he’s found Cas again. God knows, Dean would never forgive himself for losing the Angel in this place.

 

“Dean, what are you doing?” Cas asks, and Dean turns to face him. A shiver goes down his spine as their eyes connect.

 

“I’m gonna free this girl.” Dean says firmly, then jabbing a finger at Cas. “You’re gonna help me.”

 

Cas tilts his head, staring at Dean with pity. “No, Dean.”

 

Dean thinks he may have misheard. “I’m sorry? Yes is the answer I’m looking for here, Cas. This is not a negotiation! She’s a goddamn kid!”

 

“Actually she’s not.” Cas says matter-of-factly, and there’s something strange about the way he’s speaking. Dean can’t put his finger on it. “She’s the door.”

 

The child’s cries choke off, and Dean turns to her horrified face. She shakes her head. “No, why do they keep saying that?! I’m not, I-”

 

“Dean, do not listen to her.” Castiel booms, stepping closer all of a sudden. Dean doesn’t feel afraid of him this time, he doesn’t even feel the urge to throw him against the nearest surface and have his way then and there. He wonders why that is. Maybe it’s because Cas is talking utter horseshit right now. “She’s trying to trick you. Hell is trying to trick you again, and it’s working. She’s the door!”

 

Dean shakes his head, disbelieving. “What the fuck are you talking about, Cas? What door?”

“The door to the next layer.” Castiel answers, as if he’s been waiting for that very question.

 

The blood drains from Dean’s face. He turns to face the girl, who is still shaking her head, crying, telling him it’s not true. But how can he believe the word of a damned soul against the word of the Angel who pulled him out of the pit?

 

“A-are you sure?” Dean asks, hesitantly, his voice small.

 

“I’m certain.” Castiel says, and to his credit, his face looks it.

 

Dean takes a breath, sure he doesn’t want to know the answer to his next question. “How do we open the door, Cas?”

 

There’s a long silence then, punctuated only by the sobs of a child between them.

 

“You must kill her.”

 

Dean turns then, marching away a short distance. He wants to punch something, and that’s a dangerous emotion to have here, when there is so much to tempt him into bloodthirsty violence all around.

 

Why did he ever think this was a good idea? Why did he think the end would justify the means? Does Adam deserve to live if this weeping girl, begging for her life has to die at his hands?

 

He forces himself to calm down. He knows that Cas is the only thing here keeping him human. It would be stupid to walk away from him now. He stalks back over, his face both murderous and distraught.

 

“There’s no other way?” He asks Cas, his tone bitter.

 

Cas shakes his head solemnly. “None.”

 

Dean closes his eyes in defeat. What choice does he have? He can’t turn back. He’d be stuck here forever if he tried. This is the only way forward.

 

So why does it feel like this is so wrong? Can it really be that Hell is just this awful, that you have to murder in order to pass through it? Did Cas have to do this in order to rescue Dean?

 

He turns to the girl, who struggles even harder now, watching him with unrestrained fear, and Dean feels his own fingers wrap around the hilt of his knife.

 

Would Cas do something like this? Back in the day he was all about the bigger picture, and that included the rescue of Dean. Maybe he would. Dean casts a glance towards his friend, noting a gleam in his eye, his gaze slightly manic.

 

Then again, Dean thinks, as he draws out his blade, raising it to chest height as the girl in front of him screams. The person Dean knows as Castiel is generally non-violent where possible. He avoids human death if he can. Even if this little girl did somehow do something so awful that it allowed her to be cast into Hell, he doubts that his friend, Cas, the Angel of the Lord, would have it in him to kill her in cold blood.

 

He raises the knife to the girl’s throat, wanting to make it quick and easy. He tries to block out her screams but it’s impossible, they burrow into him, working their way through his every crevice until her voice fills him, eating him alive.

 

It’s too easy, he thinks, horrified at himself. He can see himself doing it, can see himself hurting this kid, because he’s done worse.

 

A stray thought crosses his brain as he stares into her two, chocolate, pleading eyes.

 

_There is no death here._

 

So how can he kill her?

 

“Do it!” Goads Cas, and Dean whips his head back towards him, catches sight of the cruel grin twisting his lips, the flash of pure black across his cerulean eyes.

 

It takes Dean seconds to whirl around, to grab hold of the Demon that is definitely not his best friend, pressing them back-to-chest, one arm braced across him, and then plunge the knife in.

 

Something strange happens then. Instead of the expected electric noise of a Demon dying, the thing in his arms starts to transform. It howls at him, furious, struggling wildly against Dean’s hold. Slowly, before Dean’s stunned eyes, the creature changes, limbs elongating, twisting into a gnarled, horrific creature, with skin like knotted wood, eyes just slits.

 

Green light bursts from its chest where the knife still sticks in, and Dean averts his eyes as it engulfs him, one thought flitting across his brain: If this creature was pretending to be Cas, what happened to his Angel?


	6. The Fifth Layer: The Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say that the fifth layer is personalised specifically to you. How lucky for Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a warning to give out. There are a few mentions of the following (but none of it actually happens):
> 
> \- Blood!kink/blood-play, whatever you want to call it when blood and sex are mixed together.  
> \- Rough sex  
> \- BDSM  
> \- I guess it could be interpreted at dub con? But I did not write it as dub con. I'm all about the 100 percent consensual Destiel. 
> 
> Also, there is sadness in this chapter with kind of references to abuse, emotional and physical. Ummm, yeah, well they're in Hell right? It has to be pretty friggin horrible if you ask me. 
> 
> I hope you're all enjoying! Thank you for your comments they mean the world xxx

It feels to Dean like he might have been asleep for a long time when he finally peels open his eyelids. His limbs are heavy and slightly numb as he struggles to a sitting position, and he’s got that early morning grogginess slowing his brain, meaning it takes him a few minutes to catch himself up properly on where he is, what’s happened, what he should be doing.

 

Then, a thought bursts into the forefront of his mind, blinding him. _Where the fuck is Cas?_

 

His stomach lurches as the words sink in. Regardless of any emotions he has about the Angel’s disappearance, the fact he’s not here leaves Dean extremely vulnerable. Even without his powers Cas had been a huge asset due to his knowledge of the layers, his understanding of Demon behaviour and well, even his comforting presence when Dean fucking lost it a couple of times.

 

Dean looks around himself in vain, but he knows deep down that its hopeless, that Cas is not here. He feels like he’d be able to sense the Angel, as weird as that sounds. But he can’t sense anything really. Just the same strange emptiness that's been filling him since he entered this place.

 

Again, Dean’s surroundings are ominous and cloyingly dark, as though the blackness is attempting to smother him. He rubs a hand over the strange sigil Cas burned into his forearm, telling himself that the atmosphere of Hell can’t hurt him whilst it protects him.

 

Yeah, Cas was so right. Without him, Dean would have died here long ago. So how is he supposed to continue now?

 

Yeah okay, so he’s only got two layers left, but one of those is the friggin’ cage which currently holds the world’s most terrifying and powerful Archangels. Plus, he’s not stupid – he can totally see that the further he goes into the depths of Hades, the worse the layers are becoming.

 

He takes a deep, shuddering sigh, the Fear from before still prickling against his skin, though not as prominent now, thank goodness. He stands, brushing off what he hopes is dust or ash from his jeans, though he can’t possibly tell in the non-existent light.

 

Well, he guesses, the only way he can hope to find Cas, get Adam, or get out of here alive is to move forwards. He got the memo that turning back is a no-go.

 

He has an idea suddenly, as he searches, squinting, for some sign of which direction to move. As he reaches into his jacket pocket and draws out his lighter, he notices his hands are shaking.

 

He knows why of course. He’s really trying not to think about what almost happened back in that other layer. He’s trying desperately hard because if he lets himself relive it even for a second, the self-loathing, the utter hatred for what he is, what he found so tempting, so easy back there, it will eat him alive.

 

As a result, it takes Dean a few tries to get a light. At last though, he’s done it, though it barely makes a difference. He sees a stone floor, cobbled and stretching into the distance straight in front of him. It’s his best shot.

 

He starts walking.

 

After a while, he loses track of how long he marches for. His footfalls become rhythmic, comforting, and then after a while, irritating. No matter where he holds the lighter, he can’t see anything around him. There are no walls either side of him that he can see unless they’re far away, and Dean really doesn’t like the idea of stepping off the path too far to look.

 

His feet don’t hurt, he supposes that’s a blessing. Occasionally he’s hit again with a familiar surge of uncontrollable desire for something awful. Sometimes it’s blood again, or torture to be specific. Sometimes it’s the urge to yell, to scream and curse, to blame and hurt someone with vicious words.

 

More often than not though, it’s the familiar urge to feel Cas’s naked skin beneath his fingers, to spread him out and take him apart with his mouth, fingers, tongue, whatever it takes. It's always specifically Cas, too. Nothing compares to the thought of those two blue eyes staring down at him, desperate and filled with desire.

 

The way he longs to sink into Cas, to draw his name from those dusty pink lips of his, to bite and claim him, sometimes it’s too much. Once or twice Dean actually has to stop for a moment, just to let the feelings overcome him, to bask in the indescribable, torturous but blissful sensations flooding his body until eventually they ebb away.

 

He doesn’t know why Lust is the sin he feels worst of all. The want for torture is only slightly less in intensity, but even for this Dean is grateful. He’d rather the Lust for his best friend than the lust for something far more sinister.

 

As he continues, shakily, down the path, the two feelings begin to blur. One moment Dean is overcome with thoughts of Cas’s mouth wrapped around him, his enormous cobalt eyes hooded and filled with want, and the next moment he’ll imagine Cas chained up before him, naked and pleading, moaning in ecstasy as Dean drags the knife across his chest.

 

After that, the thoughts get worse. Out of his mind crawl the filthiest things he could imagine – Cas’s lips tinged with red as Dean bites at them, using his own blood to fist Cas roughly, shoving the Angel to his knees with a fistful of his hair, fucking him so hard that tears leak from Cas’s eyes, though still he screams for more.

 

As much as Dean hates himself for it, he’s indescribably turned on. He can’t remember now what it feels like not to be so hard that it hurts, that it’s all he can think about.

 

Why is this happening? He manages to think desperately, though his mind is a lust-clouded haze. It makes no sense that he wants the Angel so badly, even when Cas isn’t beside him.

 

He wonders vaguely if this is the fifth layer, if he’s in it now, and will eventually just be consumed by his own thoughts. It’s torture, he thinks, as he groans against the image of slicing open a vein on his arm, of Cas latching onto it greedily, while Dean cards an appreciative hand through his hair.

 

This kind of stuff wouldn’t turn him on normally, he thinks, struggling now to put one fut in front of the other, he’s not into blood-play, or even BDSM unless it’s more on the softcore side.

“Ah, goddamn it make it stop!” Dean cries out into the nothingness, one hand gripping his head now.

 

And just like that, his mind is clear.

 

He takes a second just to breathe, to revel in the emptiness of his mind, and the cooling of his body after all that intense heat.

 

He opens his eyes, not realising they were closed, and blinks at the sight around him.

 

He stands now in a room, the path nowhere to be seen. There is light from somewhere, though Dean can see no source, but he pockets his lighter again nonetheless.

 

The room is nondescript. That’s the only way to describe it. It looks all at once familiar, kind of like a blend of every room Dean has ever stood in, and at the same time, utterly bland. The floor is wooden, slatted, and Dean steps onto it appreciatively. This is a real floor, he thinks, manmade, sturdy, not like the gaping void of the fourth layer. This is the kind of floor a guy can trust.

 

In the centre of the room there is a chair. Again, Dean thinks he vaguely recognises it. Maybe from early school days, or perhaps it's one from Bobby’s house, he thinks as he stares. Then again, it could be a chair he sits in every day of his life. He honestly couldn’t tell you.

 

His eyes flick around the rest of the room, assessing, though he finds his gaze can’t land on any one thing. It’s like he’s restless, too on edge to focus on anything but the chair.

 

When Dean’s gaze flicks back over to it, he jumps. It’s not empty.

 

The figure sat there looks human, though its facing away from Dean slightly, so Dean can only see a sliver of its profile. It looks like a human man, Dean thinks, though of course by this point his gut instinct is to treat it as anything but.

 

Cautiously, he steps to the side a little, trying to get a better view of the thing’s face. It looks familiar, yet again, as everything else in this room does, but there’s something off about the guy. Something Dean can only describe as a feeling of _wrong_ , settled at the pit of his stomach.

 

He manages to get in front of the guy, and he gives no recognition that he’s even seen Dean there. Maybe he can’t, Dean thinks hopefully, though he doesn’t want to push his luck by trying to waltz right up to the dude.

 

Instead he peers at the guy’s features, trying to pick them out, wondering why they all look so damn familiar-

 

At once, it hits him, and he almost cries out in shock. It’s him. The man in the chair is Dean.

 

It took him a while to recognise the guy because he looks… older. Or maybe not older exactly, just weathered, beaten down, his face lined and eyes hollow. This Dean looks haunted, broken, a mere shell of the one standing before him, hand on the hilt of his knife.

 

Dean wonders what he should do now. This is obviously the fifth layer, but he has no idea what any of this means. Is he supposed to interact with this other version of himself? Heck, is he supposed to kill him?

 

For the thousandth time that second, he wishes Cas were beside him, so Dean could make a crappy Room 101 joke, ask what the Hell is going on, and Cas could tell him in plain, hushed tones. And the sound of that calm, deep voice in his ear would probably slow the pounding of Dean’s heart. Then again, what with recent events, Cas standing anywhere near him is probably more likely to set Dean's heart racing, he thinks.

 

Well, Dean thinks after a moment of dithering, the Dean in the chair is not moving, so he might as well at least try and get the ball rolling.

 

He opens his mouth, about to call out a lame and probably terrified-sounding greeting, but at that moment, another figure enters. This one runs in, sprints even, and for a split second Dean’s sure he’s going to need to slice and dice, but then he sees.

 

A kid has run in, clutching a piece of paper in his hands, a wide grin splitting his cheeks.

 

It’s the hair that gives him away. That and that adorable little smile, the one Dean barely ever sees anymore.

 

“Dean! Look!”

 

It’s Sammy.

 

Stupid, embarrassing tears well up in Dean’s eyes to see his little brother so young again, so ignorant of the horrors life will bring down on him. God, he thinks to himself, one of the things he’s never going to forgive himself for is letting this pure, untarnished, innocent little kid suffer like Sammy has.

 

“Deeeean!” Sammy is saying, and by this point he’s tugging on the other Dean’s arm.

 

It happens so fast Dean doesn’t have time to react. The other Dean snarls, wrenching his arm up, the one Sam is clinging to, and flings him across the floor. Sam lands near Dean’s feet, a look so filled with betrayal in his eyes that Dean is sure he’ll never manage to get it out of his brain.

 

The other Dean is moving now, and Dean – the real Dean – can see for the first time that he’s clutching a bottle of whiskey. It’s a familiar brand, the one his Dad and Bobby call ‘Hunter’s Helper’. Dean drinks it now, too.

 

In the other Dean’s hand, the bottle is near empty, but a golden splash of liquid still sloshes around in the bottom as he stalks towards Sam, hatred in his eyes.

 

“What?!” The other Dean snaps, reaching down to grab Sam by the upper arm, hauling him upright.

 

Dean springs into action then. Nobody hurts Sammy, not even himself, and definitely not this douchey version of him. He charges forwards, slamming his shoulder full force into the other Dean’s, planning to knock him to the floor, allowing an escape for Sam.

 

Instead, Dean’s shoulder connects with the other Dean’s with a loud and agonising smack. The pain jars through his shoulder-blade, down his arm, resounding in his finger tips.

 

Dean shouts as he feels it, clutching his arm and retreating a short way. When he looks up again, the other Dean hasn’t moved an inch. He hasn’t even looked up.

 

So, Dean thinks, despairingly, the idea that he might currently be invisible is correct.

 

He’s forced to be an outsider to this shit show, to watch himself do things he would never forgive himself for.

 

“I-I just wanted to show you,” Sammy starts to choke out, a tear leaking from one of his eyes as other Dean’s fingers grip his arm tighter, “I drew this. I thought you might wanna see.”

 

Christ, Dean thinks, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling the perspiration against his palm as he does so. Is this for real? This douchebag isn’t going to look at a damn picture Sammy drew him?

 

Without words, the other Dean snatches the piece of paper from Sam’s hands, straightening up and looking at it with a cruel smirk.

 

“You drew a house, did’ya Sammy?” The other Dean asks, and a cruel smile twists his lips as he stares back at the kid. “And a li’l family?”

 

“Yes.” Dean almost doesn’t hear Sam, his voice is so quiet.

 

“Well,” the other Dean says, and as if it were nothing, he crumples the paper in one tight fist, still grinning at Sam, “you know you’re the reason we don’t have any of that, right?”

 

Tears spill over from Sammy’s eyes, rolling down his cheeks. The other Dean hurls the piece of paper far into the corner, out of sight.

 

Anger boils up in Dean’s chest at his doppelganger’s words. “You son of a bitch, don’t say shit like that to him! He’s just a kid!”

 

The other Dean doesn’t seem to hear him, despite Dean moving closer, jabbing a finger close to his face. He looks to Sammy hopefully, but the kid’s eyes are focused on other Dean’s face, they don’t stray to him once. He doesn’t know Dean is here either.

 

“That’s right, Sammy,” the other Dean continues, grabbing Sam by the hair this time, pulling him forwards and bending down, so they are face to face, “because of you and your pathetic, waste of a life, we don’t have a Mom. Heck, it’s even your fault we don’t have a Dad.”

 

“No…” Sammy cries, snivelling, and the tears seem to keep flowing.

 

Dean can’t stand it, he punches at his other self’s shoulder again, not caring that his hand feels like its on fire moments afterwards.

 

“I said don’t talk to him like that!” Dean shouts, bellowing it in other Dean’s ear, but still getting no reaction. “It’s not his fault, he didn’t ask to be born! It’s as much your fault, you ignorant prick! If you’d looked after him better maybe Dad wouldn’t have died! You’re a shitty brother, you always were – selfish and stupid, and then with Adam you did it all over again!”

 

Dean wishes any of what he’s saying was piercing through anyone’s brain but his own. His heart aches hearing this aloud, even from his own mouth. He lifts his hand to his cheek, confused to find them wet, and realising he’s crying, too.

 

“Now, Dad…” the other Dean is saying, “well he agreed with me on this, y’know. He had to blame someone for Mom’s death, and since Azazel wasn’t exactly easy to find…”

 

Sammy sinks to his knees, and the other Dean releases his hold on Sam’s hair, a look of disgust on his face. He wipes his hand on his t-shirt, and Dean notices he and the doppelganger are wearing the same one.

 

The other Dean lifts the bottle of whiskey to his lips, taking a long swig, wincing slightly at the taste. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and throws the bottle to the floor. It smashes beside Sam, making the kid jump and look up again, such pain in his eyes.

 

“Dad used to say the most entertaining things ‘bout you, Sammy.” The other Dean says, pacing around his little brother, grinning away. Dean himself can’t take it, he sinks to his knees beside Sam, wrapping him in his arms, feeling so fucking helpless because he knows Sam can’t feel it. “He used to say ‘that’s one heck of a freak you got for a little brother there, Dean-o’. He used to swear he’d dump your ass first chance he got, only he knew that you were his best shot of gettin’ to Yellow Eyes. Ironic, right?”

 

“Don’t listen, Sammy.” Dean whispers, over and over like a mantra, but he can feel Sam shaking in his arms, believing every damn word.

 

“He used to call you… Hell, whatever came over him at the time.” Dean grins even wider somehow, leaning close to Sammy’s face, partially covered by his thick, brown hair. “Psychic ex-Demon blood junkie was a personal favourite o’mine.”

 

“Dean, please…” Sammy says suddenly, shocking Dean a little, though the other Dean just ignores him. “I-I’m sorry, I-”

 

“He never loved you, Sam.” The other Dean says, his voice suddenly louder somehow, and Dean cringes at it. “Never. And neither do I. Why the Hell would I? You ruined my life, Sam. Made me into a hunter, a killing machine, took away any chance of happiness I ever could have had just by being born!” The other Dean lets out a callous laugh. “You know what? You should just end it all now, Sam. Put yourself and everyone else outta their misery, go on. We’re all a Hell of a lot better off without you, that’s for damn sure.”

 

Dean watches, utterly horrified as Sam moves his head to the side, to where the splinters of the bottle of whiskey lay lifeless by his leg. Sam reaches out, small, child’s fingers hovering over the biggest, sharpest shard.

 

“No!” Dean yells, grabbing hold of Sammy’s wrist, trying to yank it away from the glass, but finding it at once impossible. It’s as though his exertion has no effect, Sam just continues reaching; Dean can hear the kid’s heart beating furiously, he can hear his stifled, terrified whimpers, but try all he might, Dean can’t stop him. “No, Sammy, don’t!”

 

"Go on, Sammy! I won't stop you." The other Dean goads, laughing away.

 

The shard is clutched in Sam’s hand now, and Dean can hear the continuous, maniacal laughter of the other Dean behind him. Helpless, eyes stinging with tears, Dean covers his eyes, unable to watch as Sam drives the splinter of glass home.

 

He hears the squelch of the serrated edge piercing flesh, hears the choked out cry against that chilling laugh.

 

And then all is silent.

 

For a long, long time, there is no sound other than Dean's own breathing.

 

It takes Dean a long time before he can convince himself to open his eyes. It’s not real, he tells himself. For fuck’s sake, none of it is real. He would never do those things, say those things. Not to Sammy. He will never become that monstrous version of himself.

 

And yet.

 

He feels it inside of him, the monstrosity within his twisted soul. If he were to ever succumb to the wants clouding his brain like they did in the previous layer, who knows what he would become? The Dean in that chair seemed as though none of his humanity remained. Is that what this room is? A glance into the future?

 

Surely not, Dean reasons, because Sammy was just a kid in the scene that played out. No more than eight or nine. But what if Dean were ever to become a father? Would he end up like that? Like John? Drinking himself into a murderous rage, abusing his own child, or worse – bringing them up as a hunter?

 

“Are you just gonna sit there with your eyes closed the whole time, or are you gonna talk to me?”

 

Dean jumps at the sound of his own voice. It’s so strange to hear it this way, when he knows he never formed those words in his own mind. Cautiously, he opens his eyes, attempting to ready himself for the sight of his baby brother’s corpse in front of him, but mercifully, there’s nothing.

 

He turns slowly, still on his knees, and eventually faces the chair once more. This time, the other Dean stares right at him, a lazy smirk on his lips, his hair coiffed like Dean would never style it.

 

“You can see me now?” Dean asks, his voice weakened by what he just saw.

 

The other Dean smiles wider. “Oh, I could always see you.”

 

Dean swallows the bile that rises up with that statement. This asshole knew he was watching and continued? That’s not just sick, it’s depraved. So Dean resorts to the only defence mechanism he has – good old, trusty wit.

 

“Well, it’s hard to miss a face as cute as this, I guess.” Dean replies, smiling back bravely, though it physically hurts to. This is the guy he just watched drive his younger brother to suicide. He’s never hated his own face more. “You look like you haven’t been takin’ such good care of this ol’ mug though. Can't stress it enough - moisturising is an important step of the cleanse routine.”

 

The other Dean continues to smile, his eyes narrowing. “Such a fucking joker, aren’t we?”

 

Dean starts to get to his feet then, shakily, but it’s better than being looked down on by whatever this thing is. “Dude, I don’t know what the Hell you are, but do not try and lump yourself in with me, alright? It takes years of practice to perfect this kinda awesome.”

 

Dean grins now, his cockiness jumping out to save him yet again, thickening that layer of bravado once more, the one he’s gonna need if he tries to take on this psychotic version of himself.

 

“Oh?” The other Dean says, sitting up a little straighter. Dean is instantly wary of him. “You don’t like lookin’ in the mirror, huh? Well, uh,” something in the air seems to shift then, and Dean feels a tremor ripple through him, when he glances back at the thing in the chair, it’s not him anymore. “Is this better?”

 

Dean almost chokes at the sight. Ruffled black hair, day old stubble, and two eyes so freaking blue that it makes you want to dive right in.

 

“Cas?” Dean asks dumbly, and the thing that looks like him laughs.

 

“Wow, Dean. Priceless, truly.” The not-Castiel says, grinning eerily wide. “You actually just saw me transform, but you still think it’s really him, huh?”

 

Dean doesn’t say anything. How many times is he going to have to look into the eyes of monsters pretending to be his best friend until he actually finds the real one again?

 

“What are you, then?” Dean asks after a long pause. “Shifter? Didn’t think they had those down here.”

 

The not-Cas shakes his head, rolling his eyes, and then promptly stands from the chair, pacing around it. Dean is on edge, and he draws his blade out, ready, not wanting to fuck around this time.

 

“You humans,” it says, “always so fixated on Hell being in a _physical_ place. Down? We’re not down, Dean.” Dean just stares, jaw clenched. He doesn’t want to admit he’s confused, so he says nothing. “You could have walked where you’re standing a thousand times! Do you know that? Hell is just a different dimension to the one you experience in your human life every day. I believe where we are now is – on the human plane - somewhere on fifth avenue, New York City.”

 

“Ah, maybe I’ll jump off this ride then. Catch a run of _Chicago_.” Dean answers, tightening his hand around his knife. This thing, whatever it is, is making him skittish. "Or is that what happens in the sixth layer?"

 

The not-Cas gives a deep belly laugh then, nodding at Dean in appreciation of the joke. “Funny, Dean. I heard you were, too. Funny, that is.” The creature pauses then, studying him with Cas’s eyes. Dean has to look away. This thing, whatever it is, is nothing compared to his friend. “I’m not a shifter, by the way. Though I suppose that’s what you would assume.”

 

“Then what are you?” Dean asks, direct and stern.

 

He’s through playing games here, he wants to find the real Cas, kick this thing’s ass, and save his little brother. Enough time has been lost.

 

The not-Cas grins again, then sighs at Dean’s expression. “You are no fun today, Winchester.” It pauses, as if waiting for a retort. Dean gives none. “I’m known to most as Sorath.”

 

Dean’s stomach flips. He’s heard that name. Heard it on Alastair’s tongue. “I know who you are.”

 

“And I know who you are, Dean.” Sorath replies, eyes flicking to a putrid shade of green. It stalks over to him, and Dean holds his knife up, ready. It's more than a little troubling that this thing doesn’t even seem to notice, or care. “Yes, I know all about you. When I heard you wandered - willingly - into the depths of my domain, oh, I practically _begged_ to come and play this part. To torture you, Winchester, for killing my brother.”

 

“Your brother?” Dean asks, though he’s sure he doesn’t want to know the answer.

 

“Azazel!” Sorath cries, tearing the knife out of Dean’s grasp before he can blink. Dean closes his eyes, almost surrendering right there. Sorath twirls the knife in Cas’s delicate fingers, smiling now. “That’s right, Dean. Let that sink in. Are you gonna nickname me 'Green Eyes' now, as tradition dictates?”

 

Dean watches the blade carefully, gaze transfixed on it. Cas’s hands are so beautiful, so sure, so unworthy of this piece of Demon crap. Sorath holds the knife by the blade now, his other hand stroking up and down the hilt. Dean swallows, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck as he watches and he’s not sure why.

 

Sorath cackles. “Gosh, Dean. Can’t you control yourself? I know you’ve got some serious heat brewing for feathers here, but come on. This is hardly the time!”

 

Dean scowls at him, feeling useless, and fucking hating it.

 

“It actually brings me to my point though.” Sorath says, a cruel tilt to his lips. He wanders away from Dean again, still twirling the knife. “You wanna know why I chose this form, Dean?”

 

Dean cocks an eyebrow. Is he really being asked? “Not really.”

 

Sorath laughs again, plonking himself down in the empty chair. “I chose dear Castiel here, because apart from dear Sammy, who we already played with, he’s one of the people you love most. Did you know that?”

 

Dean blinks at him. Is that his big revelation? As if he wasn’t aware that he loves Cas. Cas is family, of course he fucking loves him.

 

“Ah,” says Sorath, and Dean gets the sense he heard that train of thought, “perhaps I should clarify. You’re _in_ love with Castiel, Dean. Quite profoundly, actually.”

 

“Bullshit.” Dean says, lips curling into a smile now. This is fucking ridiculous. “You think that just cause me and Cas had a little over the clothes fumble earlier, we’re in love now? Who are you tryin’a kid, buddy?”

 

Sorath’s eyes grow faux-pitiful. “No, Dean. I don’t think you and Castiel are in love. I think you are in love with him. Painfully so, as unrequited love often is.” Dean’s eyebrows crease. “Castiel could never be in love with you,” Sorath says, starting to chuckle now, “first off, he’s an Angel, probably incapable of such feelings. Secondly, you’re well… Dean, I don’t mean to bring you down, sport, but you’re absolute fucking trash.”

 

For some reason, Dean’s not expecting the insult. It throws him a little, and his breath catches. He knows better than to let a Demon’s words affect him, of course, but this… it just took him by surprise. He’s not sure why out of all the things the Demon could have said, this one might infiltrate his feelings.

 

“You’re one to talk, you Demonic whore.” Dean throws back, once he’s gathered himself a little. Sorath just smiles.

 

“Oooh, did that cut you a little too deep, Dean-o?” Sorath asks, his voice becoming soft and irritating. Dean’s jaw tightens. God he wishes he still had that blade. He focuses on it, trying to work out how to get it back. “I’ll keep the party going then, shall I? You are nothing but Castiel’s burden, Dean. Heck, you’ve dragged him away from a Heavenly civil war to help alleviate your own guilt! How messed up is that?!”

 

Dean’s getting riled up now, and he knows he shouldn’t but he can’t fucking help it. “He owed me! He could’ve shot me down if he really wanted.”

 

“Sure, sure.” Sorath says, nodding in faux-sympathy. “And then, when you got here, you looked out for him, right? You had his back.” Dean’s heart begins to pound, his knuckles whiten where they curl into fists. “After all, you’re both here now, right- Oh. That’s right. Castiel is missing, huh?”

 

“I’ll find him.” Dean says confidently, hoping the look in his eyes is enough to counter the Demon’s tactics. “I won’t leave without him.”

 

Sorath’s hand reaches up to the back of his neck then. “Will you though? Because… he’s been here all along, and you’ve yet to notice, Dean-o.”

 

The blood drains from Dean’s face. He charges forwards suddenly, not caring about the knife anymore, just knowing he has to hurt this guy, whether he wears Cas’s face or not. He grabs Sorath by the collar of Cas’s shirt, yanking their faces close, a twisted parody of earlier, when he and Cas were about to kiss.

 

“Where is he, you son of a bitch?!”

 

Sorath just laughs, and gestures with his knife. Dean has to lean back, to release him before he understands what the Demon is pointing at. He’s gesturing at his own body, at the pretend Cas’s body. Dean wants to hit him, but he knows from experience it would just break his own bones.

 

“Don’t look so disappointed!” Sorath cries. “I’m telling the truth. Demons have gotta have vessels, Dean. This one happens to be your toyboy.”

 

Dean pauses, running that through his mind a few times. “Wait a minute,” he says, the urgency threading itself into his voice, “you mean… that’s really Cas? You’re just… possessing him?!”

 

Sorath grins, nodding once, and again, his eyes turn a sickly green, demonstrating his point.

 

“Fuck! But he’s an Angel!” Dean cries, hands flailing because he has no idea what to do. How can he exorcise a Demon when it will only send it… here?

 

“Meh,” Sorath says, shrugging, “he’s more human than anything down here. Whoops! You've got me saying it now, too.”

 

Sorath winks, and Dean shudders. “Get out of him.”

 

“Aw, c’mon Dean, we were having fun!” Sorath declares, and then his gaze turns sultry. “Admit it, this vessel does things to you. I know all the sordid little thoughts you’ve been having about this pure, fluffy little cherub.”

 

“It’s not me it’s just… Lust. I swear Cas, if you’re listening, I didn’t mean-”

 

“Oh, shhhh.” Sorath interrupts, batting the air in front of Dean. “You think he isn’t having them too? Dean, compared to dear Castiel’s thoughts and desires, trust me, yours are tame.” Sorath chuckles. “Man, the things he wants to do to you. I envy you. Or pity you. I guess it depends what you’re into.”

 

“Alright, that’s enough!” Dean shouts, loud enough to get the Demon’s eyebrows skyrocketing. Dean ignores the thrills undulating through him at the notion that Cas might be having these same feelings- “Playtime’s over, it’s time for you to get the fuck out.”

 

Sorath sighs, and then suddenly, too fast for a human, he stands, right in front of Dean, the blade tightly in one fist.

 

“No, Dean.” Sorath utters, in Cas’s goddamn smoky voice, and it’s all Dean can do not to stare at those beautiful lips right in front of him. “I’m not getting out. You see, Sammy’s not here, so I can’t kill your brother in return for mine. But I can kill the next best thing, right in front of you.”

 

Dean is barely focusing. He’s too distracted by Cas’s proximity, Demon inside of him or not. It takes a few seconds before the weight of what Sorath is saying pierces his brain entirely, and the moment it does, his eyes widen, his mouth forms a shout of protest, a plea.

 

Sorath raises the knife to Cas’s throat, and Dean is too late. The blade slices across stubbled skin, Cas’s blood seeping out as Sorath laughs, choking up scarlet, and finally slumping to the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean’s fingers grasp uselessly at green smoke as Sorath pours out of Cas’s lifeless vessel, escaping into the fetid, unbearably hot air. Dean slumps over Cas, hands on his shoulders, tears falling from his eyes, mixing with the blood trickling over Cas’s neck.

 

There’s no life in Castiel’s eyes, the blue is now a dull, matte version of its former brilliance. Cas is not in here, Dean is sure. He screams into the air, so angry, so filled with rage, and mostly at himself. This is his fault, there’s no escaping it, Cas was his responsibility, and fuck, how could he have let Cas in here, after all they’ve been through, just so he could die, human and weak.

 

Dean buries his head in Cas’s chest and weeps, his heart ripping in half, feeling Cas’s skin grow slowly cold beneath his hands.

 

He’ll have no charred wing imprints to mark his impressiveness as an Angel, Dean thinks, his body slowly growing numb. His brothers and sisters might never know what happened to him. His body won’t be returned to Heaven.

 

He won’t lead armies, he won’t rein victorious over the tyranny of Raphael. He won’t perform miracles, won’t smite in the name of Good, won’t smile or roll his eyes at Dean’s stupid jokes. He won’t hold Dean ever again, won’t kiss him, or stare at him with the reverence of a disciple gazing at their Messiah.

 

Castiel is gone, lifeless, and it will always be Dean who killed him.

 

Dean sits up then, half of his mind screaming at him to stay there, with Cas, forever. How can he even think to leave him in this place?

 

But, Dean argues with himself, who will it help if he stays? Adam is still in need of rescue. The kid is more in need with every passing second. Castiel surrendered his life for this mission, for Dean’s mission, for Dean. To stay here would be more selfish than to leave.

 

He stares down into Cas’s eyes, willing them to look back, just one more time. To crinkle around the edges, to light up with fury, or passion. Nothing comes, of course.

 

He leans down, pressing one final kiss to Cas’s lips, his eyes screwed shut, tears fleeing from his ducts.

 

He stands then, and as he’s about to walk away, his left shoulder begins to burn. It doesn’t start slowly, it’s sudden, crippling pain, agony even. When Dean looks over, he expects to see flames. Instead, as he rips the sleeve of his shirt up, all he sees is the handprint scar Cas left on him, practically glowing, angry and red, and so fucking painful Dean thinks he’s about to pass out.

 

Then, as quickly as it arrived, the pain stops.

 

Dean stands there, staring at it, breathing heavily. He prods it with his finger, tentative. Nothing. It’s not even sore. He traces the familiar shape fondly, and then, with a wave of nausea, remembers the corpse of the Angel who left it there behind him.

 

What’s going on?

 

Why would it suddenly flare up like that? If Dean were to guess, he’d say it was trying to warn him, or send a message. But as far as he knows the mark is not a separate entity with its own powers or abilities – it’s never done anything like this before.

 

If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say the only person who could hope to send Dean a message through his scar was… he turns, spinning on his heel, eyes wide.

 

Choked off laughter escapes from Dean’s throat. Cas’s body is gone.

 

Oh that Sorath, thinks Dean. What a bitch.

 

Okay, he says to himself, newly found hope in his gut, and a smile lifting one side of his mouth, Castiel – _I’m coming to find you_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sources on Sorath came from here: http://demonology.enacademic.com/528/Sorath
> 
> Apparently Sorath just hangs out a lot with Azazel, but I made them brothers because y'know.... Supernatural. 
> 
> Also interesting: Azazel is known as the 'Opener' and Sorath as the 'Closer' which I think is pretty fitting! 
> 
> xxx


End file.
